The Sacred Order of Our Martyred Lady
by Ivan Alias
Summary: Dean and Piter's past comes back to haunt them, but is everything as it seems? Are the two new X-Men as trustworthy as they have lead everyone to believe? Who are The Order? Who is McIllvanney? Who is Bosshog? FINISHED!
1. I saw a pale rider upon a pale horse

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Of any kind. Or any type. I just own my OC's. WAIT! Don't stop reading. This isn't any form of 'perfect' mutant. There will not be any pairings outwith the 'expected' pairings. This is not a fic like that. I also know that you seen people write that too. So I have written this in order to say it's not going to be a fic like that, either. Those of you who have read my small humour fics will know who the Four Amigos are. However, this story concerns mainly Piter and Dean.  
  
With-a-one and a-two and a-one-two-three-four:  
  
&&&&&&  
  
It was hot.  
  
There was no other adjective to describe the temperature. It was hot. It was the type of temperature that drove dogs mad and killed birds in their nests. Heat came off the dusty ground in shimmering waves. It was a killing heat.  
  
And there was someone out in it.  
  
The blonde-haired man staggered slowly across the dry plains, sweat eroding grainy rivulets down his dusty face. His eyes were glazed. His walking was slowing. He could feel, very slightly, slight twinges in his body as he began to dehydrate. He was dying. He knew it.  
  
"I am the master of this land..." He whispered, the words hissing out around him. He took a step forward, stumbled, and fell face down on the ground, his hands flung out in front of him.  
  
His fingers dug into the dirt around him, which crumbled and collapsed with ease. I am the master of this sand, he thought bitterly.  
  
It was strange. His mind was working perfectly. It was yelling at his body to dig through the earth, get to the cooler undersoil layer, wait out the day, and travel at night when it was cooler. His body, though, was sluggish, as if he was underwater.  
  
Water...  
  
His hand found a stone, and held on to it. "The bastard couldn't even spare me a drop of it!" He sobbed, crushing the roasting stone in his agony.  
  
Tears stung his eyes. Immediately, he composed himself. Tears would be a waste of his body's water. He needed to survive, he needed to... but for what?  
  
"Once again, you're in trouble, brother."  
  
The voice startled him. He lifted his head off of the ground, feeling the weight of gravity push down at him. A raven stared at him.  
  
"You must remember what I told you when you joined that group, don't you? I said it would lead you to no good, and now look where you are..."  
  
The voice was of his sister. He remembered it, even though she was long dead, her skin as taught as paper, her bones and teeth rotting deep underground.  
  
I'm delirious, he thought with sudden light-headedness. The heat is starting to affect my mental functions, making me hear things that aren't possible...  
  
"I'm not possible, eh? You remember me well enough when you were a child, why am I not possible now?"  
  
She's reading my mind! Well... let her. It's not as if she's going to read much of it soon. He swatted his hand out lazily, startling the scavenger, causing it to leap back with a harsh cry. His hand scraped across the grit of the ground, splitting his skin open.  
  
He looked at his hand with a detached mind. He could see his wound. Blood was slowly oozing from it. It was not closing as it usually did with him.  
  
"It's not closing because you're dying." His sister's voice snapped. "You're genetic power is over-stressed right now. It's trying it's hardest to win a losing battle against your organs shutting down. You know it because you can feel it, and I know it because I'm dead."  
  
He reached forward, trying to drag his body along the ground. His legs did not seem to be responding. She's not real, he said to himself. Your mind is stressed, and it's giving the illusion that your sister is trying to talk to you...  
  
"Well, if I'm an illusion, I'm pretty convincing, am I not?" The voice was to his right, just above him. He twisted his head, his neck muscles screaming in agony. Harsh sunlight glared into his eyes, nearly blinding him. No-one was there.  
  
"Oh, come on." Her voice was now behind him. "If I am an illusion, there's no need to try and make myself visible to you. Already you're becoming blind from the sunlight reflecting off the ground."  
  
"Shut up..." He croaked. There was a flutter of wings. The raven was back, with some more of its kin. He tried to pull himself up, frighten the birds off, but his arms wouldn't respond. The birds hopped towards his prone form.  
  
"Listen to me, brother. If you stay out here in the sun, you are going to die too. You have to get under some shade before it's too late."  
  
"Shut up!" He sobbed. The birds hopped back at the outburst of noise. Lecturing, ordering... She never stopped, not even when she was dead.  
  
"I'm lecturing you now because that's all I can do. Listen, water is being sucked out of your body from the sun. You're starting to stop sweating. You can feel your blood thickening. You are dangerously low on water. Another five minutes out in this weather, and you'll be dead."  
  
The birds hopped back towards him. He closed his eyes, and then realised how cool it had suddenly gotten...  
  
"NO!" Her voice yelled. "It's not cooling down! You're suffering from extreme heat exhaustion. It's an illusion! You have to listen to me!"  
  
An illusion like you? He wanted to say, but his mouth didn't open. His dry and cracked lips stuck together as if by glue. The birds came closer.  
  
"Listen! You are on a road. There's bound to be someone on this godforsaken place. They'll notice the birds surrounding you. If you get under that stone..." He opened one eye lazily, seeing a rock in front of him. "There's a chance of you surviving this. If you don't do that, you'll not live."  
  
There was a sharp sensation of a beak clawing into his cut hand. He shot out his other hand, catching the raven. It crowed, a loud ululation, then he closed his fist, breaking its fragile body in two. He let the corpse drop from his hand onto the ground. His muscles were in twice as much pain as before.  
  
"Always the violent way, eh brother?" Her tone was mocking, but angry. "You know that won't get you anywhere."  
  
Why doesn't she shut up and help me, the bitch? He wondered. Can't she see I'm dying out here?  
  
"Of course I can!" She yelled. "I realised that long before you did! I can't pick you up. However, you can do it yourself." He heard her breathe in deeply. "Get up, and go under that rock. Someone will find you."  
  
His hands clawed into the dust, straining against the ground's grain, pulling his body agonisingly slow over it. The ravens stopped inspecting him, and now were feeding on their companion's body. What a waste, he thought. Another thought struck him. That bird will still have some blood in it. If I went back...  
  
"Forget that." Her voice snapped. "The blood will just make you thirstier. Remember that blood is salty. It'll just make your thirst worse. You must get under that rock."  
  
He continued dragging himself forward, accompanied by the sound of feasting scavengers. His hand went under some shade. It could only have been at least three degrees colder, but it felt like pure heaven to his abused body.  
  
"Good. Now drag the rest of your body under the rock." He strained, his body throbbing with the heat and pain, but he managed it. The shadow of the rock covered his face. He let out a slow sigh, feeling himself start to cool.  
  
"Remember what happened here today, brother." His sister said. "Remember who did this to you, and who killed me. Remember that was the reason that got you here. Remember who betrayed you and left you to die. Remember all of that. I know you are in a lot of pain, but you must remember that."  
  
He tried to nod, but he could no longer move his neck. He instead gasped, the dry air mingled with dust being drawn into his lungs.  
  
"Rest here for a while, brother. You'll get picked up and sent to a hospital." He agreed. He needed to rest. Yes, tiredness must be the reason why he was stating to lose his sight and why his chest was feeling so heavy. He closed his eyes, letting himself fall asleep.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Time had passed, he didn't know how long. The shade had done some good, he was still alive, he could feel the dryness of the earth and his skin, he knew he was still alive. He heard footsteps across the earth. Not another illusion, he thought feebly. He half-opened one eyelid. There was someone in front of him.  
  
"Jesus..." The figure whispered. It then turned back to the truck. "He's still alive! Quick, bring him some water!" There was more rushing feet. He heard a slopping, thudding sound as well. Someone gripped his chin, and forced it open.  
  
"What's with his teeth?" Another voice said. "I don't know..." The first figure said. He felt something made of plastic bump against his lips, and then felt something fluid and cool slip down his throat. It was... it was... it was... what?  
  
Water! He remembered! He needed it to live! He gasped, and shot forward, grabbing the bottle and drinking all of its contents. Someone yelled. He didn't care. He already felt the liquid entering his body. There was the sound of a cap being unscrewed, and someone threw more water on his face. It washed away his dry sweat and tears from his face, bathing him in coolness.  
  
"What do we do?" "We get him to a hospital is what we do." "Is he going to be okay?" Another voice, someone younger by the sound of it. "I don't know. He drank an awful lot in one sitting. He might react violently to that." There was a sigh. "C'mon, let's get him on the truck, cover him with the tarpaulin. That'll keep him cool enough 'till we get him to a hospital."  
  
There was the distant sensation of someone grabbing him round the arms. "Heavy bastard..." He heard someone groan. "Get his legs, okay?" Someone else snatched his ankles, and he felt himself being moved. He was dumped suddenly on a metal surface, causing his breath to be pushed out of him with a sudden cry.  
  
"Watch it!" There was a rummaging sound; someone was grabbing the dog tags he had around his neck. He tried to wave them off, but his arms felt as heavy as lead. There was a dry, rustling sound, and he felt some type of material cover him, keeping the accursed sun off of him.  
  
"What's that you got?" "Something off from his neck. Weird... they look like the real McCoy..." "What do you mean?" "These are military-type dog tags except... his rank isn't on them."  
  
John looked at them, the sun glinting into his eyes. "Well, is his name on them?" He asked.  
  
Paul shaded the dog tags from the sun, and peered at the lettering. "Yeah..." He looked back at the misshapen lump under the tarpaulin. "His name is..." He peered back at the dog tags, trying to pronounce the strange name. "Mac-ill-van-ee..." He blinked. "His name is McIllvanney..." He turned back to the tarpaulin, and shivered slightly in the evening sun.  
  
R&R everyone. 


	2. Reconciliation

Disclaimer: I own nothing of anything bar the Four Amigos and the Order. Thank you to all of those who have reviewed - all one of you - and to those who have read this but not reviewed, please review. If you think its poor, review. If you think it's good, review. Just review, if it's not too much problem.  
  
If you guess the origin of McIllvanney's nickname, you have my permission to eat sweeties.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
"What is the patient's condition?"  
  
Dr. Brown turned away from the blonde-haired man, and looked at the nurse who had just entered through the door. She smiled wanly at the man, then turned back to the patient.  
  
"Well, for a man who has just walked across the Nevada desert without any water for almost ten hours, he's doing surprisingly well. His organs have escaped major damage, and all his scrapes are healing without infection." She looked outside the window, hearing the rain beat a staccato rhythm against the window.  
  
"It almost seems too good to be true..." The nurse said thoughtfully. He walked over to the opposite side of the gurney. He looked up at Dr. Brown, looking faintly concerned. "In fact, it's almost miraculous."  
  
Dr. Brown sighed, "Miracles have nothing to do with it. As you may have guessed, the man is a mutant. It seems as if he has a remarkable regeneration process." She smiled humourlessly. "I suppose I should be glad he's only a mutant. If people became this healthy, we'd be out of a job..."  
  
"So, what do we do with him?" The nurse asked, looking at the man's effeminate features. Dr. Brown shrugged.  
  
"I suggest we follow the Hippocratic Oath as far as we possibly can. Even though he may not be a human, we nevertheless took an Oath to heal people without prejudice."  
  
The nurse pulled an unhappy face. "Still, I'll be glad when he gets transferred in a few hours."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"When we reported the possibility of an injured mutant, we got an order from some big wig up at the top to have him sedated for a transfer to a private hospital."  
  
Dr. Brown's face fell. "I don't even need a doctorate to see what's actually going on here. 'Private hospital', my eye..."  
  
The nurse shrugged. "We don't have a choice. They're sending in soldiers to ensure that the order is carried out."  
  
"Soldiers?! The man was shipped in here with severe heat exhaustion and dehydration! Even if he has some form of advanced healing, I doubt he'll put up much a fight."  
  
"Actually, I was told to inform you that this man is to be treated as a highly dangerous person. We have been told to keep him under constant surveillance and sedation until the cavalry arrives." The nurse held up a syringe. "We're going to pump this poor bastard with the most potent stuff we've got. He's not going to get up soon." He pierced the man's skin with the needle, and injected the chemical into him.  
  
Dr. Brown sighed. "He may be a mutant, but he hasn't done anything wrong..."  
  
"They said they're just keeping him for questioning." The nurse added.  
  
"They said that about Camp X-Ray, too." Dr. Brown added in response.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Three hours had passed. The rain had increased in volume, and thunder could be heard, rumbling angrily into the night. The hospital doors opened, and a squad of soldiers entered the building. The sergeant approached the desk, and asked for the whereabouts of the blonde-haired man. He was pointed in the direction of the man's ward.  
  
The squad walked sharply towards the dorm, and stopped at the door, seeing Dr. Brown outside the room.  
  
"Ma'am," the sergeant said sharply, "I must ask you to stand aside while we remove the patient from this premises."  
  
Dr. Brown smiled wanly at them. "You may have orders to escort this gentleman out this hospital, but I am here to ensure that no mistreatment comes to the patient while he is being moved. We wouldn't want any 'accidents' to occur, now would we?"  
  
The soldier's face contorted slightly. He then sighed. "Alright, you can overlook our removal of the patient. It's too late for me to have an argument right now."  
  
Dr. Brown smiled slightly, then opened the door and let the soldiers enter. "I presume the subject has been kept under sedation?"  
  
"He's been hit with enough drugs to knock out a horse. He's not going to wake up through the next ice age."  
  
The sergeant gave a sharp hand signal to one of the soldiers. The marine stepped forward, and drew out a small syringe of his own. "Still, we have been instructed to ensure the patient is well and truly sedated before transport."  
  
"Hang on." Dr. Brown said, walking forward, only to be stopped by one of the soldiers. "What is in that syringe?"  
  
"Just a mild sedative." The sergeant stated. "Don't worry, we're not going to kill him."  
  
"I'm not to sure about that! You could be in serious danger of causing severe internal injury by injecting multiple drugs into his system. You could cause him to go into shock."  
  
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we have orders to sedate the subject our way. If you do not allow us to do this, I am afraid that I am going to have to remove you from this room."  
  
"The hell you will! This is a hospital! I am a doctor! It's my duty to- Hey!" A soldier grabbed her arm. "Get your hands off of me, you ape!"  
  
"Get her out of here." The sergeant snapped at the soldier who was restraining her. He turned to the soldier with the needle, and nodded. The needle was placed into the crook of the man's arm. The needle pierced the skin.  
  
The man leapt up with a yell, flinging his arm out instinctively, throwing the needle and soldier away from him. He swallowed, and gasped, a fish drowning in air. Then he remembered.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
"...right here and now, you are no longer my friend." McIllvanney stared at the man, blood filling his eyes. The man kicked out with his foot, knocking McIllvanney out the van door.  
  
He fell out of the vehicle and landing awkwardly on his arm, shattering it. His body bounced off the dry earth, and he landed again, this time on his head, splitting it open. Pain, like nothing he had ever encountered before, wracked his body. He looked up at the departing van, and gritted his teeth. "Bastards..."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
He heard yells all around him. People in fatigues were pointing weapons at him, but he couldn't make out the words. What was going on? What had he remembered? Who was he...?  
  
&&&&&&  
  
"So what is this?"  
  
The bald woman turned and smiled at him wanly. "'This' is a small group of elite personnel used to target and eliminate certain..." she paused, "...elements within this country. We are a highly secretive and strategic group used in conjunction with military operations, among other things."  
  
McIllvanney tipped his head to one side. "You mean an anti-terrorist squad?"  
  
The woman pursed her lips. "More or less, more o-"  
  
&&&&&&  
  
The Sacred Order!  
  
He remembered!  
  
He was a member of the Sacred Order!  
  
But what was he doing here?  
  
One of the soldiers pointed the gun directly between McIllvanneys eyes. He was screaming at him to do something... but what? Why couldn't he understand him...?  
  
&&&&&&  
  
"There are several considerations one must remember when you have been taken hostage." It was the bald woman again. "You may find that you cannot hear or understand people, even if you know that they are trying to communicate with you." She paused, and turned to one of the people she was lecturing to.  
  
"Is there something amusing, Whistler?"  
  
The man shook his head, his beaded hair flying wildly around his face. "No, ma'am."  
  
"Good." The woman resumed her pacing and lecture. "If you ever experience this, it is an indicator that you have been exposed to a mind- weakening substance. It may be something mundane, like a sedative, or altern-"  
  
&&&&&&  
  
That was the reason. They had given him something. He couldn't understand them because they had given him something. McIllvanney raised his hand, and opened his mouth sluggishly.  
  
The man shot him.  
  
The force of the bullet smashed McIllvanney onto the bed, and he heard the spattering of his skull and brain hit the ground.  
  
Strange, he thought, why am I not worried? Why am I still alive...?  
  
&&&&&&  
  
The red-haired girl wrinkled her forehead. "What are you saying you can do?"  
  
McIllvanney smiled, and drew out his machete. "I have a form of advanced regeneration, rather like the ones found in reptiles or insects." He raised his machete, and cut off one of his fingers. He held the stump up to his face.  
  
"Any cellular damage causes an extraordinarily fast healing response. An upshot of that is..." he raised an eyebrow as new tissue started to rapidly grow from the stump, "...that I can never truly be incapacitated."  
  
The girl wrinkled her nose in disgust. "That's gross."  
  
"Ah 'hink that's cool, m-"  
  
&&&&&&  
  
He was a mutant? What was that?  
  
McIllvanney felt his head re-grow, hidden from view of the soldiers. A woman in a white coat was screaming at them. She was a-a-a doctor. Yes, that was what she was.  
  
Another thought struck him, just as his head finished healing.  
  
These bastards were endangering his life!  
  
There was another person saying something quickly. Concentrate now... what was he saying...?  
  
"-uck's sake, we have a fatality here, I repeat a fatality. Hendrix, what the hell is wrong with you? We were supposed to take him alive!" There was a sigh. "Well, we'd better get this son of a bitch to the scientists, see what they can get from the autopsy."  
  
Someone grabbed his arm, and dragged him out of the bed. He heard a zipper being pulled, and saw a large plastic bag - a body bag, that's what it is called, he remembered - and saw them grip his legs. The woman in the white coat was still screaming. She sounded more angry then scared. She didn't want them to kill him...  
  
So, I haven't been abducted by any type of government agency.  
  
I am not in a military instillation.  
  
I can escape.  
  
McIllvanney flung his foot out at Hendrix, shattering his kneecap in one blow. The sergeant's arm was grabbed, then hurled under the bed-rest. Another movement swiftly lowered the bed, crushing it. Another blur of movement, and the man's sidearm was in his hand.  
  
He felt bullets slam into and out his arm. As each bullet passed, he felt the slight tickling sensation of his wounds healing. He was the Road Virus. That was his nickname. Because he just kept coming back...  
  
He turned to face the last soldier. He smiled, his lips drawing over his filed-sharp teeth. He knew who he was, what he was, and who had done this to him. 


	3. Voice of the Voiceless

I don't own anything. Of any kind. Or any sort. At all. Just this idea. Here is the next addition to the 'Order' story.  
  
Thanks to all of you who have spent time to read this over-dramatic and – let's be frank – rubbish fic, and more thanks to you who have spent time reviewing it. I shall try my best to make this story as best I can. Just keep your wits about you. Time in this fic is not always linear, kinda like out of Catch-22.  
  
So, here we go!  
  
&&&&&&  
  
There was the sound of sirens crying out into the night. A car passed in the street in front of McIllvanney. He looked down at the pavement, and spat, watching the spittle hit the concrete five stories below. He smirked, his teeth scraping his lips.  
  
He jumped from a crouching position, landing on the building across the road. Super-human strength, he said to himself, was quite handy. He rubbed his nose with the back of his arm, and looked up at the sky. Rain was still splattering across his body, large, fat, grey droplets. He smiled, and opened his mouth. Never again would he underestimate water.  
  
He walked over to the edge of the building he was, and saw a dimly-lit seven-eleven across the street. He looked down both ways of the streets, and - seeing no-one - leapt from the roof to the street, smashing a small crater into the pavement with his weight. He got up, slowly, then walked across the flooded streets, and opened the door to the store.  
  
The young man at the counter looked at McIllvanney in a bored fashion, then turned back to the radio that was playing out some music. Another man was browsing through the magazines at the front door. Neither of them seemed extremely interested in him. McIllvanney walked towards the snack sections, and grabbed a pack of cookies and some chips. Another man entered the shop – an elderly, doddery old soul – who got a newspaper and went over to the counter. McIllvanney snatched a small can of soda, and walked up to the counter.  
  
"Did you hear what's going on in the town?"  
  
McIllvanney blinked in sudden surprise, thinking that the question was being directed to the kid behind the counter, but the old man was looking towards him. "Uh, no. What?"  
  
The man made a sharp tutting sound. "There was some sort of a hoo-ha down at the local hospital. Apparently-" he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "-a mutant was involved in it. Two people dead."  
  
MCIllvanney pursed his lips, but couldn't keep a smirk twist his eyes. "Wow! We'd better be careful."  
  
The man nodded his head in an exaggerated fashion. "Indeed. It makes you think what on earth the government's going to do about it." He paid for his paper, and looked at the headlines. "Perhaps this Senator Kelly's got the right idea..."  
  
MCIllvanney shrugged. That seemed to satisfy the old man, who promptly left the building with a doddering walk. MCIllvanney placed his messages on the counter, and watched the man pass the scanner over each one of the objects in a bored fashion.  
  
"Excuse me," McIllvanney started. The man ignored him. MCIllvanney cleared his throat. The kid looked at him with a bored expression. "Whaddyawan'?"  
  
"I was just wondering, do you sell any stationary?" The kid looked at him blankly. "Any paper and pencils?" The boy gestured towards the back of the shop sharply with a thumb. McIllvanney walked over and got a notepad and a pack of pens while the kid finished scanning the other goods. McIllvanney threw the stationary onto the pile of food on the counter, and thumbed through some cash, generously donated by the late Dr. Brown.  
  
The man packed the goods in a bag, and McIllvanney handed the money over, leaving before he was handed any change. He passed the magazine-reader, and exited into the black and dreary streets.  
  
The rain was continuing its relentless 'pitter-patter' dance on the pavement and windows. McIllvanney drew his shoulders into himself, trying to keep dry, and failing. His hair fell into his eyes, temporarily blocking his sight. He brushed it out of his eyes with a snort of annoyance. Water pooled around his boots and sped towards a couple of cars. McIllvanney looked at them, and smirked.  
  
He walked to the first car, and looked it over. To say it was in a state of disrepair would be the same as saying that nuclear missiles weren't that destructive. He kicked the side of it, and looked on with something bordering on pity as a hubcap detached itself, and rolled into the gutter.  
  
The second car looked more promising. It was a truck of some sort, with a Confederacy sticker on the rear bumper. McIllvanney sighed, and pulled it off, throwing it into the road. His hand tightened around the door handle.  
  
There was a sudden blur of movement, and a dog was snarling at him through the window. McIllvanney jumped back in shock, then composed himself. A poor man's security system, he thought disparagingly. He looked at the baying hound, and then punched his fist through the truck's window, catching the creature around the neck. There was a brief, wet snap. McIllvanney pulled what was left of the dog out the window, and threw it onto the pavement.  
  
He pulled the locking mechanism off of the steering wheel, and tore open the steering column, exposing the wires like the guts of a disembowelled computer. He quickly stripped two wires, and connected them together. There were a few sparks, then the engine coughed into life. He leaned back in the seat, and sighed. He pulled out the pens and paper he had just bought, and leaned the pad against the wheel. There was writing already at the top of the paper: 'Things to do Today'.  
  
He placed a pen in his mouth, sucking it absent-mindedly. He then shot forward, and wrote: 'Write down things to do today.'  
  
He pursed his lips, and began toying with the pen between his fingers. He then breathed in heavily, and added: 'Kill Piter.', then: 'Kill Dean.'.  
  
He ended, as a type of an afterthought with: 'Buy new socks.'  
  
He looked down at what he had written, then nodded curtly. He flicked the indicator of the car, and pulled out of the parking space, leaving only broken glass and the corpse of the dog in his wake.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Five hours earlier...  
  
Dr. Brown nodded at the leaving nurse, and then turned back to the now inebriated blonde-haired man. Strange... she thought. For a man, he's very feminine-looking, but the teeth... the teeth... She pulled back a lip, revealing them in all of their shark-sharp glory. They were, frankly unnerving. They had been sharpened, quite crudely, to razor-points. If he smiled, she said to herself, he'd cause children to cry in fear.  
  
There was a brief crackle, and she heard the tannoy: "Would Dr. Brown please report to the main desk, Dr. Brown, please report to the main desk."  
  
She sighed and got up to the door. She paused in the doorway and looked back at the sleeping man. She then walked out the door, and headed towards the main desk.  
  
The corridor outside the man's room was empty. Only the flickering of the fluorescent lights illuminating the hospital caused a noise. Then, at the faintest realms of hearing, there was a tune being whistled.  
  
The whistling grew. If the man was awake, he might've recognised it as the fabled opera tune, 'The Drinking Song'. However, this was not the case. Then, coming around from the corridor's corner, came the most eccentric- looking individual possible.  
  
His long, muddy-black hair had been intricately braided with a variety of coloured beads. His eyes seemed wide and past sanity. His dark skin was decorated with eye-watering tattoos of a celtic design. However, it was his teeth that got the most attention. He had no front teeth.  
  
He walked outside of the man's room, looked at the room number, then – whistling double-time – looked at a piece of paper he had in his pocket.  
  
He opened the door, and stopped whistling when he saw the man on the gurney. His eyes seemed to glint with a hunger, but this was quickly replaced with a slight dazed look. He walked over to the bed, and put his ear to the man's chest. He waited, then stood back up, and looked down at the blonde-haired man with a calculating look.  
  
"Well," he began, "I never thought I'd see you like this, McIllvanney." The toothless man grinned. "The invulnerable and unstoppable Road Virus humbled by some quick thinking. I am in awe of those two." The man reached into his pocket, and drew out a small syringe. "As a fare-thee- well, my staunch ally, I have been told to give you the good old 'Potassium Chloride bump-off', by Bosshog."  
  
He held the syringe up to his eyes, then looked back down at the sleeping man. "There's no need to go off in a huff about it, Virus," he frowned slightly, "if we were in each others shoes, I know you'd do the same thing as me, and I wouldn't blame you. The lady can make your life a living hell, and I say that without a trace of hyperbole."  
  
He reached forward with the syringe, then an electronic tune of 'Mission Impossible' broke out suddenly. The man jumped, then quickly reached into his pocket, pulling out a mobile phone.  
  
"Yeah, this is Whistler."  
  
"Whistler... I presume that you are at the hospital, na ja?"  
  
Whistler smiled, feeling the cold air blow through his gap in his grin. "Uh-huh, as a matter of interest, I'm over McIllvanney right now."  
  
"Good. Leave the hospital."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Leave McIllvanney as he is, and leave."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Are you questioning my orders, Whistler?"  
  
"No, ma'am, I'm merely trying to see the logic behind them."  
  
"You always were slippery, Whistler."  
  
Whistler smirked. "Well, I had a good teacher."  
  
There was some dry laughter on the other end of the phone. "Most droll, Whistler. Don't get too smart, now."  
  
"Yes, ma'am. It's just that if we let Virus live, he'll go after those two with a vengeance."  
  
"Precisely. We have had little luck in locating them, but then again, we-" the voice took on a sneering tone "-don't have the right incentives. McIllvanney, on the other hand, wants them both dead. Can you think of a better motivation to find a person then that?"  
  
"No ma'am."  
  
"We'll just observe him, make him our pet bloodhound, let him go into a little death frenzy trying to find those two, then, when he finds them, we take them back for ourselves."  
  
"I don't think McIllvanney will be particularly keen in letting us save them from his wrath, ma'am."  
  
"If worse comes to worse, we'll kill him afterwards."  
  
"Kill him?"  
  
"Certainly. To be perfectly honest, McIllvanney is a muscle-minded tank- brain. He's a thug and a murderer. He has no sense of subtlety or deception. He is simple and destructive. Getting the two boys back will be worth much more than him."  
  
Whistler looked at the man with a raised eye. "I hear that, ma'am. Goodbye." He switched the phone off.  
  
He walked to the door, then turned back to the blonde-haired man. He pointed his finger towards him, and whispered; "Bang!", then he left.  
  
He was like a small boy who deals death with his imaginary pistol.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Read and Review, please. I'm begging you here. 


	4. Goodnight Moon

Disclaimer: Let's see now... I don't own money? No, that's not it... I don't own the Mona Lisa? Well, that's true, but that's not it... Ah, yes, I don't own anything to do with X-Men: Evolution.  
  
A little more to do with the Order, and presenting, and let's be frank, his overdue appearance, Piter!  
  
Oh, anyone who can guess who Sneaky is based on gets an award of one cubic centimetre of air.  
  
So, here-we a-here-we a-here-we-here-we go.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Picture a warm, sunny day in the middle of a Californian suburb. Birds are tweeting, people are walking, talking with each other, going to the beach, etc. etc. Now, picture a truck stopping outside of a large house, and picture McIllvanney getting out of the truck.  
  
Yes, this perfect picture will not last for long.  
  
McIllvanney walked up to the front door, and knocked on it lightly. He looked around the street, flinching at the overhead sun slightly. There was a sound of rushing feet, and then the door opened, revealing a girl with clay-red hair and small glasses.  
  
"Can I help you..." the girl trailed off, looking at McIllvanney mostely in surprise, but with some fear.  
  
McIllvanney smiled humourlessly. "Hello, Rose."  
  
"McIllvanney?" she squeaked.  
  
"You betcha." He then leaned in pushing his face towards hers. "Now, can you guess what I'm doing back here?"  
  
The girl shook her head.  
  
"Well, that's too bad." He then pushed her aside, and walked into the house, slamming the door behind him.  
  
"Yo, yo Rosemary..." A bored voice called from the kitchen. Whistler walked out of the room. "Who's at the do- Jesus Christ."  
  
"No, but you're close." McIllvanney said, then he smirked. "Now, where's everyone else?"  
  
"Uh, well, Bosshog's in the study as ever, but-" McIllvanney pushed Whistler aside, and strolled along to the study.  
  
He opened the door, and walked in. A bald woman looked up at the sound of the door opening. There was another person in there, although 'person' was stretching it a bit. He was about one-foot eight in height, covered in muddy-yellow fur, had a rodent-like physique, and when he saw McIllanney, made some sort of a sound, a cross between a squeak and a 'maa' sound. In short, a most peculiarly cute creature.  
  
"Hello, Sneaky." McIllvanney nodded at the small person. He turned to the bald woman. "Bosshog." He muttered, and lowered his head reverentially.  
  
"Sneaky, leave us." The woman snapped. The creature looked sharply from one person to the other, then ran out, squeaking in his peculiar manner frantically. The door slammed shut after he had left. The woman yawned, and looked McIllvanney straight in the eye.  
  
"Why have you come back, Road Virus?"  
  
McIllvanney took a seat, hung one of his legs over the chair's arms, and cracked his neck. "I came back for my stuff, but I also came to ask for your help."  
  
The woman raised an eyebrow, but waved her hand, indicating that he should continue.  
  
"You know what those damn kids did to me. I want them dead. I am going to kill them. I want the help of the Order in finding them." McIllvanney stared at the woman levelly.  
  
Bosshog got up from her chair, and walked around the desk she was behind. She then hopped back, sitting on the edge of the desk, and raised an eyebrow. "You want to kill both of them, eh?" McIllvanney nodded. "And, you want our help, eh?" He nodded again.  
  
The woman sighed and jumped off of the desk, and started to pace the room. "Why do you want our help, exactly, McIllvanney? Is the fabled Road Virus actually having a hard time trying to revenge himself?"  
  
McIllvanney glared at her. "It's not just myself I'm revenging, but my sister, too." He breathed through his nose heavily. "You once said that you considered yourself a dealer of justice. Help me by dealing justice now."  
  
Bosshog held up a finger. "I said I was a dealer of justice, not pointless violence." She stared at McIllvanney with a form of pity. "Those kids did screw you over, but that does not mean it is justified in killing them."  
  
McIllvanney smiled slowly, that is to say, his lips parted, and his mouth went up at the corners. Each of his needle-teeth glinted in the room's light. "Excuse me?"  
  
Bosshog shook her head. "I said it once, now I'll say it again. You will not receive any help from me or any of the Order in this pointless vendetta."  
  
"This coming from the woman who once tore a man's eye out of his face because he made a joke about your appearance?" McIllvanney shook his head. "Sometimes you can be very hypocritical." He leaned forward, his hands on the desk. "I know I've been always seen as a thug and a bonehead around here, that I'd kill someone at the drop of a hat. However, this is the only time I believe that it is necessary to kill someone. Whistler would agree with me. So would Mary."  
  
"Yes, but I'm not either of them, now am I?" Bosshog tented her fingers. "You can go if you want my friend, but we will not help you. That is my ultimatum."  
  
McIllvanney's nostrils flared. "So be it." He got up quickly, knocking the chair onto the ground. He strode to the door, then paused. "Is it alright to get my stuff from my room, or is that too much bother?" He said in a sardonic tone. Bosshog sighed, and dismissed him with a wave of her hand.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
"Are you sure you're doing the right thing, sir-ma'am?"  
  
Bosshog looked at the red-haired girl as McIllvanney drove off into the distance. "Of course I'm sure. That poor idiot will lead us directly to the boys, and then we shall take them back." Bosshog cracked her knuckles. "They'll soon see the error of their ways when they're back." She looked at a potted plant sharply. "Sneaky, be sure to tell that to Whistler."  
  
There was a disappointed squeaking sound, and Sneaky shuffled into view from behind the plant. With a disappointed shrug, the creature shuffled off towards Whistler's room.  
  
Rosemary pursed her lips. "Don't you have any suspicions concerning your execution of the plan?"  
  
Bosshog stared at her levelly. "I suspect many things, Mary." She looked back at the departing Sneaky. "Now, leave me."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Sneaky jumped onto Whistler's bed and began hopping up and down, squeaking at length. Whistler looked round from the computer he was on, and raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"  
  
Sneaky rolled his eyes, and repeated his rapid squeaks. Whistler nodded in the middle of his rant, and pulled a grim face. Sneaky finally stopped, and looked at Whistler expectantly.  
  
"Well, bucko," Whistler began, drumming his fingers "I'm not in favour of letting Virus there kill the boys, and neither am I too happy of the thought of them being dragged back here." He drew his lips back, and blew air through the gap in his teeth rapidly as he did when he was thinking. He clasped his hands together, and nodded. "I know what to do."  
  
He reached under his pillow, and pulled out an old mobile phone. He punched a few buttons on the number pad, and waited. There was some ringing, then the call was received.  
  
"Yeah, hello, I'm looking for a Piter, is there a Piter Lewis there?" He paused, listening to the other person. "Yeah, I'll hold." There was the brief sound of someone shouting on the other end, then he heard Piter's voice on the phoneline.  
  
"Piter, it's me, Whistler..."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Thirty minutes later, at the Xavier Institute...  
  
Xavier nodded his head at the sound of his door being knocked. "Come in, Piter."  
  
The long-haired youth opened the door and entered the study. "It really bugs me when you do that, Prof."  
  
The professor pulled a wry smile. "Sorry, force of habit."  
  
Piter shrugged, then ran his fingers through his hair. "Listen, I've got some bad news. I just got a phone call from one of the people I used to work with. There are plenty of bad things going on."  
  
Xavier nodded his head. "Go on."  
  
Piter raised an eyebrow. "Why don't you just use T.P.? It'll be quicker."  
  
"I don't use telepathy, unless it is absolutely necessary Piter. Besides of which, you were trying to change the subject."  
  
"Apparently, our old boss, that is to say Dean and I, is trying to hunt us down. However, there is something else that has come up which is worse."  
  
"You are talking of course of McIllvanney, no?"  
  
"I thought you said you didn't use T.P. unless you needed to."  
  
"I didn't need any telepathy to see what you were scared of."  
  
A sigh. "Well, he's come back. And, if I know him, which I most assuredly do, he will come here and kill both me and Dean."  
  
"I see..."  
  
"To be truthful, he will get his revenge, and I deserve to die. Dean doesn't, but I do."  
  
"Piter, there's no need to talk li-"  
  
"Oh, cut the crap, sir. I apologise about the language, but I can't afford traipsing around the bush right now. McIllvanney has a good reason to hunt me down, and to kill me. If I were in his shoes, I'd do the same thing."  
  
"No you wouldn't. That is what separates the two of y-"  
  
"Maybe now, I wouldn't. But back then, when I was with the Order, I would do it." Piter sighed. "Dean and I left the Order and went here because we wanted to leave that life behind us. With Bosshog in charge, there was only going to be death for us in that line of business. Of course..." Piter's face twisted in anger. "Bosshog suspected us of treachery. We had to do her last order to the letter in order to waylay suspicion. And that is when I became like McIllvanney. That was when I became a killer."  
  
Xavier sighed. "Your life has been complex, I'll grant you that. However, as you said, you are trying to start a new life. You'll have to forget about what you have done."  
  
"I can't. Now, it seems as if my deeds won't forget me either. Now, I could end up dead because of what I've done."  
  
"You're with the X-Men now, Piter. We'll help you if you end up in trouble."  
  
Piter snorted. "Oh, yeah, and how quick do you think they'll come to our rescue when they learn what actually happened?" His face became long. "You've got a good heart, Professor and I respect you for that. However, the rest of the gang will not have as much of a forgiving heart as yourself."  
  
"You underestimate them, Piter."  
  
"I am a human super-computer. I have analysed what will happen if they are told. The chances of them holding together are astronomical. If they find out, they won't want anything to do with me or Dean, and I wouldn't blame them." Piter sighed. "I guess there is no place in the world for a second life, huh?"  
  
"We shall help you as much as we can Piter. Don't ever think otherwise."  
  
Piter smiled lightly. "I can't help it. I've been trained to think of everything that can happen."  
  
Xavier nodded his head slightly. "I suggest that you sleep on it tonight. I'm sure that in the morning things will look brighter."  
  
Piter shrugged. "Very well." He got up off of the chair he was on, then turned to the Professor. "I thank you for your time, and for your patience in listening to my tale of woe."  
  
"That's what I'm here for, Piter."  
  
Piter smirked, then turned and strode out the door, shutting it behind him. He then sighed, and looked out the window at the setting sun. He heard the cicadas singing their evening melody, smelled the sweet stench of wet grass and saw the blood-red skies. The skies are boding something, he thought, and they're not boding something good.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Please Review 


	5. It's so Obvious

Well, golly gosh, I just saw the review about the guessed name, sorry I didn't see it first time round, I must've gone temporarily blind. However, McIllvanney's nickname comes from the Stephen King short story; 'The Road Virus Heads North'. It was a good guess, especially considering Piter is named after someone in Dune; Piter De Vried, the Harkonnen Mentat. Good guessing.  
  
Oh, yeah. I don't own anything.  
  
So, here we go. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more  
  
&&&&&&  
  
"Piter? You in there?"  
  
Piter looked up from the package he had taken from the bottom of his closet. "Yeah, come on in, Dean."  
  
The Scottish bat-man came in, and saw what Piter had on his lap. He met Piter's gaze angrily. "Ah thought you said you didnae take any'hing from th' Order."  
  
"I know. I lied." Piter wrapped the package up, and shoved it under his bed. "I took that along with us because I felt I may need it. Now I know I'll need it."  
  
"Whit are you talking about, mon?"  
  
Piter sat down and gazed at Dean levelly. "McIllvanney's back, Dean."  
  
Dean swallowed. "Who told you?"  
  
"Whistler called a couple of days ago. It turns out that the Virus does live up to his name. He does keep coming back. Each time more deadly."  
  
Dean smirked humourlessly. "Piter, when your depressed, you can come out wi' some utter pish sometimes." He rolled his eyes. "'Each time more deadly', what, did you employ a scriptwriter for that line?"  
  
Piter grinned. "Thanks, Dean. You're right there, I suppose."  
  
"Of course Ah am! Ah always am!" Dean sat down on the bed across from Piter. "Ah know whit you did tae McIllvanney. It was awful. Ah know tha'. But you did dae it tae rescue yersel' and me from the Order. Don't y' think that wis a worthwhile exchange?"  
  
Piter looked to the side. "Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't."  
  
Dean sighed. "You are tenacious when it comes tae being a depressing bastart, y'know?" He sat up, moving his wings behind his back. "Look, we came here to have a different chance at life. We told our story to the Professor, and he told us tha' he'd ne'er tell anywan about what we did, and who we were."  
  
Piter looked back at Dean, who was smiling slightly. "I suppose so..."  
  
"Dinna suppose, know." Dean raised an eyebrow. "Yer a 'human super- computer' as you hive put it many a time, ya modest bastart. You've got tae forget about the past, move on. We've got new friends here. Guys who'll help us, no' harm us."  
  
Piter breathed in through his nose, slowly. "I'd like to forget the past, but the-"  
  
"Past willnae forget you." Dean finished. He smiled toothily. "That wis what you were going tae say, wisn't it?"  
  
Piter looked guilty. "Not necessarily..."  
  
"Ah know you to well, Piter."  
  
"Okay, okay... I may be worrying over nothing when I think about what we have done. But this news..." he trailed off "...it's not good. McIllvanney is back. I also think that Bosshog is using this somehow."  
  
Dean looked up sharply. "Really? Did Whistler tell you tha'?"  
  
Piter got up. "No. But I know Bosshog. She's a woman of devilish cunning. She wouldn't permit this to happen if she couldn't get something out of it in return."  
  
"What, then?"  
  
"I don't know." Piter admitted. "However, we do have an ally back in the Order, what, with Whistler and all."  
  
Dean tapped his bony nails on his teeth. "Do you think we can trust him? Ah mean, he did 'hing about wi' that bastart Sneaky. And you know whit he's like."  
  
Piter grinned. "You're one to talk about not thinking about the past. You still don't forgive him for beating you at poker seventeen times in a row."  
  
"He wis cheatin'! Ah just couldnae prove it!"  
  
"He probably was." Piter conceded. "That's exactly why he was called Sneaky in the first place. Even I couldn't see how he did it. He's I guy you can respect for his cunning." Piter then shook his head. "Look, I'm sure he's reliable. He was an okay person, unlike McIllvanney or..." Piter grimaced, "...Rosemary. Besides, it sounded as if he was telling the truth over the phone."  
  
"But remember whit he can dae, Piter."  
  
"He's not that skilled with his power. He may be able to imitate voices and sounds flawlessly, and do that whole eardrum-bursting thing, but he cannot disguise emotion in his voice."  
  
"So, you think we can trust him."  
  
Piter nodded.  
  
"D'you 'hink he'll call again?"  
  
Piter shook his head. "Probably not."  
  
Dean whistled mournfully, and blew his brains out with an imaginary pistol. "And here wis Ah thinking we had gotten away wi' it." He clasped his hands in front of him. "Ah guess Ah shouldnae be so naïve, huh?"  
  
Piter didn't respond.  
  
"Look, whit we need is some sort o' R 'n R, as the yanks around here call it."  
  
"How very politically correct of you, Dean."  
  
"Look, all Ah'm saying is that maybe we shuid take a break, y'know? Like, mebbe go tae some sort o' party, or perhaps get some new stuff." Dean's eyes took on a glazed appearance. "There's this wan CD by the Boss which Ah've been trying tae get for years. It might be on sale down-town."  
  
"And how do you propose that we arrange such an outing? The only time you could go out in public – let's be frank – is during Halloween."  
  
"It's no' like tha' mah friend." Dean said snappily, his grin spreading lazily. "Thanks tae a little bit of ingenuity, Ah've managed tae get th' fabled image inducer off of our favourite digitally-disadvantaged Deutsche."  
  
"What, did he give it to you?"  
  
Dean moved his head from side to side. "No' really... Let's just say Ah felt that Ah could go out in public for a change."  
  
Piter smirked. "Why the hell not? I could use a few posters around this place..."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
McIllvanney lazily pulled the bike into the gas station, and put the kickstand down. He got off, and cracked his neck and fingers. He crouched, inspecting the extra baggage he was carrying along. Satisfied that none of it had fallen off, he turned and walked into the building.  
  
The door released a small jingle as he strode in. There was nobody at the counter. A small note on top of it said: Out for lunch. Be back in five. Don't bother trying to steal anything from the register. It's locked and I can't open it right now.  
  
McIllvanney rolled his eyes and snorted in annoyance. He walked over to the drinks cabinet and stared into the frosty glass, checking his appearance. The doorbell jingled. A depressingly cheerful voice called out: "Can I help you, ma'am?"  
  
McIllvanney stood up, and breathed out through his nose in a very annoyed fashion. His hands clenched and relaxed, then he turned around, and stared at the station owner with an angry expression.  
  
"Oh. Oh! I'm sorry sir, it's just th-"  
  
McIllvanney raised one of his fingers. "Stop right there before you insult me any further, boy." He lowered his hand, and looked around the shop. "As a way of apologising, I think that you shall let me purchase a map of this area."  
  
"Yes, sir." The shop-keeper muttered as he reached for the pile on the counter in front of him. He looked up from the pile, and saw McIllvanney looking at a newspaper stand intently. He picked one up, and walked over to the man with a calculating look.  
  
"Do you know what this interview concerns?" McIllvanney asked, pointing at a side article on one of the local rags. The shop-keeper looked at it, grabbing a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket. "Ah yes, the infamous Senator Kelly. He's just going on again about the whole mutant thing again." The man pulled a long face. "I can't say I fully agree with the man's policies, but what he's saying about mutants may be right." He looked back at McIllvanney, who was staring right back with a raised eyebrow. "Is that so?" McIllvanney replied.  
  
"Well, certainly these people have caused considerable amounts of damage and suffering wherever they seem to go. It may be a good idea to at least let us know who they are..."  
  
McIllvanney raised his hand, and opened his mouth, then closed it with extreme reluctance. He scanned the passage again. "What is this institute of which he constantly refers to?"  
  
"Geeze, man. Haven't you kept with the news recently? There turns out that there is some boarding house for all of these mutant kids on the outskirts of New York. Some type of suburb called Bayville. Apparently, all sorts go there to keep their children safe. Run by this Xavier fellow." The man shrugged. "It's quite unusual, if you ask me."  
  
"If this is old news, why is he going on about it?"  
  
"Well, he practically devotes his entire campaign on mutants. But what's really got his goat is that some new kids were accepted. He's claiming that they'll cause extra unrest in the area."  
  
"Do the media know who these new kids are?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. They've got a listing of them right there." The man pointed out four names. "One's called Eva Morricone. Another's Alex Brookmyre. The last two are Piter Lewis and Dean McIntosh." He looked back at McIllvanney. "Why do you ask?"  
  
McIllvannet shrugged. "No reason, just curious. If I may have that map, now?"  
  
The shop-keeper nodded. "That'll be five bucks."  
  
"Five? That's daylight robbery!" McIllvanney looked at the shop-keeper's face. "Alright, then..." He forked out a five-dollar bill, and lazily dropped it on the counter. He snatched the map from the counter with a grunt of annoyance, and left the shop, muttering in annoyance. He walked over to his bike, sat down on its seat, then stared at the map he bought. His finger traced the index until it reached 'B'. He quickly flicked around a few pages, then came across what he was looking for.  
  
He folded the map up, and started the engine. He paused, then slid his hand towards the right side of the bike. His fingers lightly brushed against a package he had attached to the side of the bike. He clenched his fist around it slightly, then he moved back to the throttle. With a brief twist, he sped off, leaving a trail of dust behind him.  
  
His eyes were glazed as they looked into the sun setting into the distance. He was close. He knew it. He could finally, finally finish this off, once and for all. Nothing was going to stop him now, not when he was so close.  
  
&&&&&&&  
  
R&R, please, I know it's not very good, but eh, ce la vie n'all. Thanks to all of those who have reviewed, like. 


	6. About Her

Disclaimer: Why do you wish me to repeat it? Do you like torturing me? I don't own the thing!  
  
By the way. Red Witch, I do apologise if I have seemed to have insulted you recently. Believe me here when I say I apologise for any misinterpretation, it was not my idea to insult you. Also, are you aware you have started every review on this piece with 'Oh'?  
  
Oh yeah, the middle section may seem a tad too silly, but I couldn't think of what else to write.  
  
Without further ado...  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Five years ago, in the town of Littleton, New England...  
  
There were the subtle clinks and clatters of cutlery as the waitress took away the cup on the table in front of Bosshog, who acknowledged the service with a nod. She sat back in her chair, stared out of the window and sighed. When this was all over, she thought, it would be nice just to come here without a care in the world. She looked down at her hands, then clasped them together. However, until then, I have a job to do.  
  
There was a jangle of a doorbell, and a fiery-headed youth entered the café. He looked around briefly, and spotted Bosshog with a sudden glimmer of mischief. He quickly walked over to her table, and sat on the chair opposite to her. He moved his arm over the backrest slothfully, and lazily smiled at her.  
  
"Hello Catherine."  
  
Bosshog nodded only in reply.  
  
"How are you doing?"  
  
She tapped her fingers on the table. "I'm fine. You?"  
  
The boy grinned suddenly, his eyes sparkling with an insane joyfulness. "Never better, my dear. Never better."  
  
"Just why are you so joyful?"  
  
He leaned forward, and his grin grew wider. "Because my uncle has finally stopped lazing around on his fat ass, and decided to start his, how shall I put it? His masterpiece."  
  
Bosshog shrugged. "That's very nice, but that doesn't explain the reason for you contacting me about it for no reason."  
  
"Au contraire my beautiful, but dangerous, Catherine." He leaned back, and his demeanour became more serious. "We need your help to accomplish it."  
  
Bosshog chuckled in a patronizing manner. "What use can I be? If your uncle wishes to start gaining power in all forms, good luck to him. Until that time, however, I doubt I shall be doing much for you."  
  
"Don't be so dismissive, Catherine..." his tone a parody of pity, "...if you keep up that attitude permanently, then you shall never be able to get the most out of life."  
  
Bosshog raised an eyebrow. "What coin do you offer to purchase my skills?"  
  
The man pursed his lips, and placed a finger to his temple. "We can supply you with a handsome sum, speaking from a fiscal point of view..."  
  
"Money does not interest me."  
  
"Are you that untouchable, my dear?"  
  
"I do not consider myself a mercenary."  
  
"Just as a scarlet woman does not consider herself a common prostitute?"  
  
Bosshog's eyes narrowed. "There's no need to insult me that way."  
  
The boy's look for a fraction became cold. "You insulted me, though. An eye for an eye, as you always say." He leaned forward, his face regaining a disturbing joviality. "Until the time which you cut your last strings with us, Catherine, you are a mercenary who works for us. Do not think that because you have a good education or good upbringing that you are not. There's no denying who you really are."  
  
She gritted her teeth, and dug her fingernails into the tables surface. She breathed out, then put on a forced smile. "Thank you so much for reminding me." You twisted bastard, she thought.  
  
The boy grinned again. "That's my girl!"  
  
"At your service." She felt the bile gathering in her throat.  
  
"Well now... to business. Uncle dearest desires your help in arranging a little 'private army', so to say."  
  
"Why me?"  
  
"You have had the training, you have the skills, but above all, you have had the oppression necessary to make a perfect fighting machine." He briefly looked over her. "Your violent and confrontational past has made you one of the best fighters Uncle has ever seen. He even thinks you to be better than me..." he trailed off, looked momentarily annoyed, then he rallied. "For this reason, he has decided for you to hand pick a small, covert unit who can do certain jobs not normally expected by normal people."  
  
"You want me to arrange a kill-team, don't you." It wasn't a question, only a statement of fact.  
  
He shrugged. "Call it what you will."  
  
"What constraints are to be in place?"  
  
He tented his fingers and leaned his elbows on the table. "Well, the team is to be made up of only those who posses the mutant gene."  
  
"That's a tall order. There are barely more than a few thousand across the entire planet."  
  
"Ah, ah, ah! I just told you not to be so dismissive! Uncle will provide the necessary funds needed to cover the costs of arranging such a team. You are allowed to get anyone of any background, but preferably youths."  
  
"That'll cause tension."  
  
"Exactly. With tension comes oppression." The boy waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "You know as well as I do that the best trained fighters are not those who are given the best training, but those who can adapt the quickest, survive oppression and change, those who learn defiance from despair." He looked back at Bosshog. "Uncle wants a team made up of people like that."  
  
"That's a tough order."  
  
"But it's not impossible."  
  
"It'll cost a lot in money and resources."  
  
"Uncle's coffers have been steadily filled in order to meet any demand you may have." You see..." the boy smirked, "...Uncle has been planning this for many a year."  
  
"It'll not happen overnight."  
  
"Is it not written that the long way is the safe way?" The youth leaned back and crossed his legs.  
  
Bosshog breathed out through her nose. "What shall I get in return for doing this job?"  
  
"Uncle shall reimburse you with enough money to make it worth your while, and..." he pointed suddenly, seeing her about to object, "...you have His word that he will never bother you again, and you can retire to some old, abandoned place somewhere out here for the rest of your life." He finished with a sneer of disdain.  
  
Bosshog paused. "Will he do that?"  
  
The boy smirked. "You know Uncle. He always keeps his word."  
  
Bosshog leaned back. "It's a tempting offer..."  
  
"Think about it, my dear. Never again will we hound you, and you can forget all about your previous life. What happened to your parents..." He smiled at the sudden glare he received. "You see? Even when I casually mention a simple topic, you become aggressive."  
  
"You are aware you are a complete bastard."  
  
"Of course! You have to be to get ahead in this world."  
  
She sighed, and ran her hands over her skull. "I'll have to think about it."  
  
The man got up from the table, and gave her another phoney smile. "You know how to contact us when you make up your mind..."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Five years and two days later, on the road to Bayville...  
  
Bosshog turned to Rosemary, one hand on the wheel. "Mary, if you ever distract me again, I will personally throw you off the Mississippi Bridge with weights attached to your feet."  
  
The red-haired girl pouted. "Sneaky started it."  
  
There was a squeaking sound which could be interpreted as: 'Did not!'  
  
"You did so!"  
  
Again the squeak.  
  
"You liar!"  
  
Squeak.  
  
"Shut up!" Bosshog bellowed, then turned back to the road. "Whistler, where do you suggest we go now?"  
  
Whistler shrugged, and bit into an onion. "As far as I can tell, McIllvanney went this way, probably looking for information, then went on the road again, after finding it."  
  
Bosshog rolled her eyes. "Well, is there any way that you could find tracks showing where McIllvanney went?"  
  
"Probably."  
  
"Well then..." she began, clenching her fists, "why don't you, for once in your worthless life, go and make yourself useful by finding these tracks?"  
  
Whistler looked at her in an insulted manner, and bit into the onion for a second time. "If you ask me in that type of manner, I don't see why I should."  
  
Bosshog dug her nails into her palms. Why, oh why am I surrounded by these idiots? She thought in self-pity. She composed herself.  
  
"Look, just please do this one thing for me, okay?" Whistler shrugged and took another bit of the onion. "Please?"  
  
Whistler sighed, opened the car door and jumped out. "And for God's sake, stop eating that onion!" Bosshog added as an afterthought. She then sat back in the car and breathed a very bad word.  
  
"Bosshog? Can I have something to eat?" Rosemary's voice called from the back mournfully.  
  
"There isn't anything to eat. You should've eaten before we left."  
  
"But I did..."  
  
"Well, just improvise then!" Bosshog shot back. Silence was the only reply. She sat back and closed her eyes, relaxing. Blessed quietness... Then there was a wail of horror, and Sneaky leapt into her lap, and gripped onto her arm.  
  
"Rosemary..." Bosshog began. "Did you try to eat Sneaky?"  
  
"I was hungry..." Came the reply.  
  
"You're going to be eating my foot if you're not careful!" She snapped. She sat back, and tried to unsuccessfully push Sneaky off of her. For not the first time in the past hour she wondered if it was a wise idea to bring the whole gang over at once...  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Five hours into the future, Bayville coffee shop...  
  
"Thank you..." the cashier sang, "have a nice day." She closed the register, and then, seeing at the outskirts of her vision, two people at the counter, started her sales mantra again. "Hello, what can I... get..." she trailed off.  
  
There were two men at the counter. One was tall with blonde hair. The other was a teenager with long hair and red lips. However, their condition was what made her pause. Both had blood covering their mouths and chins, giving the effect as if they had been tearing out horse's throats with their teeth. The teenager's nose was skewed alarmingly to his right, and his face was quite bruised. The other man had large slashes in his clothes surrounded by blood. In short, both looked as if they had been in a war.  
  
"Uh... do you want an ambulance?" The cashier hazarded. The blonde-haired man shook his head and gave what he thought was a reassuring smile, which is hard to do when you have sharpened teeth. "No, luv. We're just here to get some drinks. I'd like a small espresso, and my friend here..." He said, looking at the long-haired teenager with a stare that went beyond murderous.  
  
"Ah'd glike a cupb of chot chogl-" the boy began, then he raised a finger. "Ahg'm tzorry abahd dis." He gripped his nose with his left hand, and then hit it with his right hand sharply. There was an audible snapping noise, and the kid bent over howling in pain. More blood dripped from off of his face onto the linoleum. He stood up and composed himself. His nose was back in the expected position.  
  
"I apologise for that." He said softly. "I'd like some hot chocolate, several paper napkins, and ice, if you have id."  
  
The woman nodded wordlessly.  
  
The guys stood at the counter, waiting for their order. The blonde-haired man looked at an extremely scared-looking couple to his right. "Is there something wrong?" He asked, grinning maliciously. They shook their heads silently.  
  
"Knock id off, McIllvanney." The kid snapped, then turned back as the cashier put their drinks, napkins and ice. "Thank you, ma'am." He said in a choked voice. "My friend here will pay for the drinks." He walked to a table, closely followed by McIllvanney.  
  
They both sat down, opposite from each other. McIllvanney sipped his espresso, then started to wipe his face clean of sweat and blood. "Are you going to have a drink, Piter?" he asked, mopping his forehead.  
  
Piter shrugged faintly as he wrapped some ice up in a napkin and clenched it under his nose. With his free hand, he clumsily picked the cup up, and took a long drink. He put the cup down, and licked the foam on his upper lip. He then made a 'tut' of annoyance. "I can't believe you broke my nose."  
  
"You don't believe it? Well, you broke mine. Several times if I remember. If you want to, I could do it again."  
  
Piter shook his head, and winced. "I can't help it if you have hyper- healing abilities, McIllvanney."  
  
McIllvanney shrugged. "It's a perk."  
  
"I don't doubt it."  
  
The two guys paused, surrounded by a blanket of silence.  
  
"How long is this cease-fire going to last?"  
  
Piter looked up from the table, and glanced at McIllvanney's bloody face. "I think we should wait until a slightly more inconspicuous time. I think that we drew a bit too much attention to ourselves with your little declaration back there."  
  
McIllvanney snorted, and began wiping blood off of his chin. "You're just saying that so you can lick your wounds, my friend."  
  
"I'm not your friend, McIllvanney." Piter corrected. "Besides, you're right. That first blow you gave me was unexpected. I didn't know you were behind me."  
  
McIllvanney shrugged. "When we were in the Order, we were told the best time to hurt someone was when they weren't expecting it."  
  
"Yeah, but that's just unsporting. Besides..." Piter trailed off, looking at McIllvanney through his uninjured eye. "You have a distinct advantage over me in a fight."  
  
"Yeah, but then again, I don't have your computing skills." McIllvanney pointed out.  
  
Piter nodded, then took another drink. He paused, wiped a bit of his face, then asked: "I assume an apology isn't acceptable now, is it?"  
  
McIllvanney smirked humourlessly. "Your assumption is correct, my fr- Piter."  
  
Piter glared at him angrily, then winced in pain. "Look, I know you're angry at me, but that's no reason to drag any of my friends, which includes Dean, into your vendetta."  
  
"It's alright, Piter." McIllvanney wiped his knuckles with a napkin. "I'm not planning to kill anyone else but you. Your friends, bar Dean, haven't done anything to me."  
  
"Dean didn't do anything. It wasn't his plan."  
  
McIllvanney shrugged. "Maybe not, but he did trick me to wander the..." McIllvannet raised his voice, "Nevada desert for three days without any water, food or map." He smiled humourlessly. "That kinda puts a crimp into your day."  
  
"I arranged it all." Piter pointed out.  
  
"Which is why when I kill you, I'm going to feel so much better."  
  
Piter breathed in and out heavily. "Look. I know you are very angry at me..."  
  
"Angry?" McIllvanney muttered. Then he chuckled. "Angry? Angry doesn't even begin to describe my feelings towards you. Furious is getting closer. Homicidal is almost there... but there are no real phrases in the English language which conveys my feelings."  
  
"Okay. You are more than angry at me." Piter snapped, getting angry himself. "But now, I'm a different person. I've changed."  
  
McIllvanney sighed, and smiled condescendingly. "Oh, great." His smile turned to a sneer. "I don't give a flying fuck."  
  
"McIllvanney, please, think this out." Piter began. "I know I fucked you over bad, but I had no choice."  
  
"Oh, yeah right. You're a 'human super-computer'. You're supposed to be able to consider all possibilities. Even I could spot a different way of getting out." He leaned forward, and glared at Piter. "You just wanted Bosshog to think nothing was wrong. If you had left before you did the job, you would've still ended up at the institute, safe and sound."  
  
"I guess it says something if I fear Bosshog's wrath over yours, McIllvanney." Piter retorted. He took his makeshift bandage off of his face. "Look, killing me may make you feel better, but it won't bring your sister back."  
  
McIllvanney snorted in disbelief. "You bitch..." he began, "you are not going to deter me with that line. Your change in life-style hasn't brought my sister back, but you've done it regardless. In order to feel better. That is why I am going to kill you." He took a sip of his espresso. "Logic." He explained.  
  
Piter sighed, and looked down at his cup. "So, when do we finish this thing?"  
  
"It all really depends..." McIllvanney said with a sigh. "Do you want a funeral in the spring, the summer...?"  
  
Piter glared at McIllvanney with utter hatred. "Fine then, be that way." He drank the last dregs of his drink. "How about Saturday night?"  
  
"That sounds good. When and where?"  
  
Piter pursed his lips. "I think that the Bayville playing ground is the best place. Around one in the morning. Nobody'll be around. We can have us a good old-fashioned barney, make as much noise as we want. We won't be bothered."  
  
McIllvanney shrugged. "It's a date." He sipped his espresso. Piter got up to leave, still holding his ice to his face.  
  
"Piter..." McIllvanney called out, then pointed to Piter's face, indicating the blood that he had missed in his cleaning. Piter sighed, and gave McIllvanney the finger. McIllvanney grinned. "That's the spirit, old friend..."  
  
Piter exited the shop, and McIllvanney leant back, draining the rest of his espresso with a shiver. He then cracked his neck with relish, picked up an abandoned newspaper and began, with all signs of relish, to read.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Please review. Your opinion matters, as they say in democracies. What they don't say in democracies is that your opinion will not be taken into consideration by us, you poor pathetic peasant. In this case, however your opinion will be taken into consideration. 


	7. I'm Gonna be a Wheel

Hello, everybody. Just a little update saying this'll be the only chapter for a while, but don't worry I'll be back relatively soon wi' another chapter.  
  
Yes, we own no X-Men, we own no X-Men today.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Saturday night, 11:00.  
  
Piter was asleep on the gurney bed in the medical bay. Wrappings had been added around his eye and nose, with bandages around several cuts on his arms and torso. There was the steady hum of the ever-activated fluorescent light and the steady breathing of Piter asleep.  
  
Piter breathed in slightly more deeply than usual, and woke up. His eyes opened slightly, a vague slit traversed across the room, then he opened his eyes fully. A simple gesture removed the wrappings around his face. He prodded his nose gently, and winced at the pain, then he winced at the wincing, which caused him to wince some more. Then he composed himself.  
  
He twisted around and leapt off the bed, promptly collapsing onto the floor. Ow, Piter thought, that is very sore. But then again, that's what you get when you have several ribs broken. He lay on the linoleum for several minutes, thinking just how comfortable it was just lying there... Then he remembered why he was up.  
  
He leaned heavily on one arm, wincing at the pulling sensation at the skin around his cuts. His other hand grasped the other gurney opposite from his. He tensed his arms, pulling himself up against the wall tortuously slow, then braced his now-quivering arms against a nearby cabinet and gurney with a slow groan of weariness.  
  
He steadied his breathing, then set his face in a determined line. He slowly put on step out in front of him, began to place his weight on it. It buckled severely, twisting his body from its standing position. He managed to fling his knee and hand out to stop him collapsing on the floor. A stinging sensation in his hand and a small pool of blood from under palm signalled he had opened a cut. He winced, then started to crawl slowly towards the door, his left hand slipping dangerously.  
  
He opened the door from a prone position, then gripped the edges of the doorframe, and began to slowly pull himself upright again. He wedged his feet into the corners of the door, and leaned out slowly, scanning the corridor.  
  
"You know, you really shouldn't be up." Hank's voice called from behind him. Piter jumped in fright, nearly swallowing his tongue. Then his legs remembered they couldn't support his weight, and he fell forward, yet again. However, this time, he was caught before he hit the floor.  
  
"Mr. Lewis, I am astonished. A person of your intelligence should realise that in your condition, the best thing to do is to rest." Hank stated, carrying Piter back towards the gurney.  
  
"I'm sorry..." Piter muttered, wincing at the strain talking put on the flesh around his nose. "I don't know what came over me. I must've been trying to sleep-walk or something..."  
  
"Now, now..." Hank said, dumping him back on the bed. "It's understandable that you are in a slightly confused state over what happened to you. You certainly received quite a bit of head trauma."  
  
"Mr. McCoy..." Piter whispered, his eyes closing slightly at the fluorescent light. "Why are my legs not supporting me?"  
  
"Hey, don't worry kiddo." Hank replied. "It was just a mild bit of painkillers we gave you. Don't worry, you'll get feeling back soon, say an hour or so." Hank reached for a small hypodermic needle. "Now, if you just relax, I'm going to give you something that'll help you sleep."  
  
"You're saying that my leg problem isn't permanent?" Piter muttered, his eyes almost fully closed now. "It'll be better soon?"  
  
Hank rested the needle in the crook of Piter's arm. "Yeah, that's what I said." He reassured.  
  
"Good."  
  
Piter's hand flashed down towards the needle, twisting it upwards. At the same time he flung himself up into a sitting position, imbedding the needle into Hank's arm. Piter slammed down on the plunger, injecting Hank with the chemical. Hank looked at Piter momentarily, an expression of mild confusion on his face. Slowly, like a cut tree, without any bending at the joints, he fell backwards onto the floor.  
  
Piter grimaced at Hank's unconscious form. "Sorry about that, Mr. McCoy," he apologised, "but I can't let you jeopardise my little vendetta now, can I?" He looked down at his legs, and tried to move his feet.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
He squeezed his right leg, and winced at the lack of feeling. He sat back, and stared at the unresponsive limbs. He tried moving his toes.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
He breathed through his nose testily, then intertwined his fingers, and glared at the immovable digits. He half-closed his eyes, entering a slight trance of concentration. He willed his deepest muscles within his body, tensed his hips, called upon his nervous system to try it's hardest, and attempted to wiggle his little toe.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
"This could be slightly problematic..." Piter muttered to himself. He shifted his body to a more comfortable position, then stared at his feet levelly. Seconds passed, then minutes. Sweat beaded on his forehead, first of concentration, then of anger, then of humiliation. Ten minutes passed, eleven... twelve...  
  
"Oh for FUCK'S sake!" He yelled suddenly, and folded his arms. He jutted his jaw out instinctively, and looked away from himself. His nostrils flared briefly in irritation. At this rate he'd never get-  
  
There was a brief sensation of movement.  
  
Piter slowly turned his head, and stared back at the lucid limbs. He stared at them with a calculating look. He very slowly, as if afraid that doing what he would did before would cause his legs to fall off, twitched slowly.  
  
His small toe moved, just a fraction.  
  
He leaned his head to one side, and smiled. "Well, first things first..." He stared at the remainder of his feet. "Let's get started..."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
One hour later...  
  
Piter walked slowly up the road, carrying the package he kept in the cupboard. He looked up from the tarmac, and saw the playing ground in front of him. He paused, then slowly removed the paper surrounding the package. He dropped the packaging carelessly, and held up what was inside the package in front of him.  
  
It was a light, four-foot long quarterstaff. He spun it around in an absent-minded manner then alternated his grip on it before spinning around and thrusting it out in front of him in a stabbing fashion. He stopped, then stood up, holding it casually by his side.  
  
"Yer weapon o' choice, eh Piter?" A voice called out from the street.  
  
Piter sighed. "Dean, shouldn't you be in bed?"  
  
Dean walked out from the shadows angrily, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Don't you patronise me, you get!" he whispered furiously. "What are you doing out here? Ah'd a' thought that you wuid be in th' infirmary!"  
  
"Dean, look, just-" Piter started, but was cut off by Dean.  
  
"So, y'know, Ah went tae th' infirmary, thinking it wuid be a nice gesture to visit you. However, when Ah got there, lo and behold, there seemed to be a lack of you in th' infirmary. Now, at tha' my suspicions grew slightly. These suspicions were furthered by the presence of Mr. McCoy's unconscious form on th' floor."  
  
Dean put one finger to the side of his mouth in a parody of thoughtfulness. "Now, whit did Ah think when Ah saw all this? Y'know, Ah hid suspected when you staggered in from th' trip that you did not run into any anti- mutant demonstrators. Th' X-Men may hive believed you, but Ah didnae. You could beat up anybody in a wan-on-wan fight, except fer wan person."  
  
"Dean," Piter protested, holding his hand up in an attempt to calm him, "I'm sorry, but I had no ch-"  
  
"You saw McIllvanney, and you didnae even think tae tell me!" Dean yelled in anger. "Whit, did you no' think that it wuid be rather important to tell me that a psychopath who wanted revenge on me wis in town?" Dean glared at Piter. "Well?"  
  
"Dean, please." Piter pleaded. "I didn't want anyone to know about it. You have enough troubles to begin with. We came here to forget about our past. I thought that if I dealt with this on my own..."  
  
Dean glared at him. "You know damn well you couldnae do this on yer own. McIllvanney's a trained killer. Getting' intae a fight wi' him wuid be suicide. An' then he wuid come after me next."  
  
"He said he wouldn-"  
  
"Oh, don't be so naïve!" Dean snapped. "He wuid kill me, not for revenge, but because he likes killing people." He walked forward and pointed a finger into Piter's chest. "The reason you didnae tell anywan about it wasn't so they widnae know. You just didnae tell anywan 'cause you thought in your damn arrogance that you cuid stop him yersel'!"  
  
Piter glared at Dean. "I have to stop him myself."  
  
"No!" Dean hissed. "You don't need tae!" He pointed back to the institute. "We went there so we cuid get some protection, so we cuid leave the Order. The people there, although slightly naïve, are good people. They'd help us, if only you telt them about McIllvanney!"  
  
Piter shook his head. "McIllvanney's from the military. Only Logan could really have a chance against him. All the others wouldn't stand a chance."  
  
"So what makes y'think y'would stand a chance, eh?"  
  
Piter breathed out through his nose testily. "Remember he taught me how to figh-"  
  
"He also taught me hoo tae fight." Dean retorted. "So, why did y'no' tell me about him?"  
  
"Because it's not your fault that he's after us!" Piter snapped back. "I got us into this mess. I'm going to be the one who gets us out of it."  
  
"Y'know, fer being such a smart kid, Piter, y'can be amazingly idiotic at th' same time." Dean tapped his foot on the ground in an irritated manner. "Bosshog once said tha' the best way tae defeat something was tae outnumber it. If you wuid stop being such an egotistical wan-man army, y' could've gotten some help with this."  
  
Piter gritted his teeth. "It's too late for that now."  
  
"Naw, it isnae!" Dean hissed angrily. "We hive friends back there who wuid help us nae matter what!"  
  
Piter snorted. "I'm not so sure about that..."  
  
Dean stopped, and then smiled humourlessly. "Oh, Ah see it all now..."  
  
"Dean, please let me pass."  
  
"You arnae worried about mah safety, or the X-Men's safety, are you..." Dean said slowly. "You're scared about them findin' out whit you did, aren't you?"  
  
"It's not as simple as that." Piter said with forced calmness. "Now, let me go-"  
  
"No." Dean squared his shoulders. "You're going tae have tae admit what happened back there tae somewan, even if it's tae yersel'. If you keep on trying tae hide it, your gwan tae regret it."  
  
"What are you, Frasier Crane?" Piter retorted. "If I wanted you to be my psycholog-"  
  
"Don't be like this, Piter, please." Dean whispered. He put a hand on Piter's shoulder. "Don't joke aroun' like tha'. No' now. They're going tae find out some way or another. You cannae ignore whit y've done in the past. Doing this is just another way of trying tae forget whit happened. Please, just turn around, and head back to the institute wi' me, okay?"  
  
Piter looked down at his feet, shifting his jaw from side-to-side.  
  
"Please?"  
  
Piter sighed. "You're right, Dean." He looked back at him. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be, Piter. Just come back."  
  
Piter shook his head. "I'm not sorry for that. I'm sorry for this..."  
  
The quarterstaff cracked against Dean's forehead with a sudden speed. Dean blinked slowly, then fell on the tarmac, face-down. Piter lowered his weapon, then continued walking towards the playing ground.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Piter entered the grounds silently, and held his weapon in front of him like a cosh. His eyes scanned the ground silently as he slowly side- stepped around the field.  
  
"You can come out from there, Piter." McIllvanney's voice stated from the other side of the grounds. "I'm not going to hide from you."  
  
"Then why don't you show yourself?" Piter yelled out into the darkness.  
  
"By all means." McIllvanney walked out onto the grass, dressed in his usual fashion. His machete was strapped to his waist in a sloppy fashion, and his hair was loose around his shoulders. He stared at Piter with a raised eye, then smiled slightly. "Are you going to come out yourself?"  
  
Piter walked out slowly, his quarterstaff held out to his side. He stopped ten paces away from McIllvanney, and crouched down slightly.  
  
"So, do you want to finish what you started?"  
  
"McIllvanney..." Piter whispered. "I want you to know... About your sister... I had no choice."  
  
McIllvanney rolled his eyes. "Right now, I couldn't really give a shit." He drew his machete out slowly, and pointed it towards him lazily. "You and I have some unfinished business which I intend to finish this fine morning." He held the machete over his head. "Is the Lewis ready to die?" He asked in a quiet voice.  
  
Piter adjusted his grip. "May the best man win..." He whispered.  
  
For a few moments the two men stood there, eyeing each other's stance. Crickets chirped in the background. Dew started to form. A breath of air blew over them.  
  
All was still.  
  
Both shifted their right legs at the same time, launching themselves at each other silently.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Dean picked himself off of the ground. He rubbed his head slowly, then looked around sharply for Piter.  
  
There was no sign of him.  
  
He twisted around on the spot, trying to see where he could've gone. He walked along the road, scanning the path ahead. A clash of metal sounded out. Then another.  
  
Dean twisted around at the sound. It was coming from... from...  
  
Another clash.  
  
The playing ground!  
  
Dean started to run towards the sound, then stopped. He looked back at the institute, far in the distance. He looked from one to the other, trying to decide where do go to first. Then a slight thought occurred to him. He turned slowly towards the nearest road sign.  
  
The Brotherhood Boarding House...  
  
Dean looked at from the sign to the playing grounds. Another clash, this time mingled with a yell sounded. He started to run in the direction the sign pointed at...  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Please R&R.  
  
Sorry about the delay, and I'm afraid the next chapter'll take some time to do, so I won't be seeing you all soon. 


	8. Emit Remmus

Sorry, despite popular demand, this fic is being continued, not delayed. There was a little misunderstanding. So, here, slightly earlier than expected, is the next chapter. It's a little humorous, I'm sorry, I couldn't resist, but it's still relevant.  
  
What? Why are you staring at me like that, why are y- Oh, I don't own nothing.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
"You're wrong!" Pietro snapped.  
  
"No I'm not!" Freddy yelled back.  
  
"You're both wrong!" Todd hollered at the two of them.  
  
"Why am I forced to live with such imbeciles?" Wanda muttered, rubbing the ridge of her nose wearily.  
  
"I've asked that question many a time." Lance replied, and took a sip of his drink.  
  
"Look, it's obvious that I'm right." Pietro said, waving his arms unconsciously. "How on earth can you say otherwise?"  
  
"Let me see," Todd said pulling a parody of someone looking thoughtful. "Oh, I know. BECAUSE YOU'RE WRONG!"  
  
"Oh, that's rich!" Freddy chortled. "Listen, you are both wrong, and I am right!"  
  
"No you are not!" Pietro replied testily.  
  
"Oh, yes I am."  
  
"I think you're wrong..." Todd pointed out.  
  
"Well, I know I'm right!"  
  
"You're wrong!" Both the boys yelled.  
  
"I'm right!"  
  
"WRONG!"  
  
"RIGHT!"  
  
"WRONG!"  
  
"RIGHT!"  
  
"WILL ALL OF YOU SHUT UP AND GIVE ME SOME PEACE!" Wanda suggested calmly, causing several objects to unnaturally twist and bend in order to supplement her point of view.  
  
"We will, snookums..." Todd said, trying to console Wanda, "as soon as those bozos admit that I'm right and they're wrong!"  
  
"And the chances of that are...?" Lance muttered, sitting down on the sofa, kicking up a cloud of dust.  
  
"Oh, yeah right!" Pietro laughed condescendingly. "Of the two alternate – and wrong – theories that you guys are giving, yours is the least believable! At least Freddy's idea makes some sort of sense! Yours is just... dumb!"  
  
"My theory is not wrong!" Freddy said, hotly.  
  
"Really?" Todd spluttered. "If my theory is wrong, what is with all the pointers shown throughout the film?"  
  
"Those 'pointers' don't make any sense!"  
  
"They do so! The sticking plaster on the back of the neck... the combination code on the briefcase... it all indicates that my theory's right!"  
  
Freddy snorted. "Listen, Tarantino may have included religious hints with Jules, but that was it! He wasn't trying to make a movie about religion!"  
  
"Jules just supports my argument even further!"  
  
"Well, at least my theory is conceivable!" Pietro pointed out.  
  
"SHUT UP!" Freddy and Todd both yelled.  
  
Wanda made a sound that was a cross between a sigh and a groan, and headed towards her room  
  
"Okay... okay..." Pietro muttered, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Listen guys," Lance said, holding his hands up in a calming manner. "You've all got good points, but don't you think we'd better go to bed? I mean it's..." He looked at his watch and groaned. "Okay, we're going to bed, now! We've been up too late!" And, he thought in the privacy of his own mind, if you argue about this anymore I'm going to do a Jack Nicholson.  
  
"Hey, we can't go to bed right now, Lance." Pietro replied. "We have to finish this argument once and for all!"  
  
"That's not going to happen..." Lance pointed out.  
  
"It will, as soon as those morons see the truth and realise I'm right!"  
  
Both Freddy and Todd opened their mouths and were about to tirade Pietro when there was a knocking at the door. It wasn't the calm, 'could you please open the door' knock, it was an 'open the door, or I'll kick it down' knock.  
  
Lance left the room, and cautiously opened the door slightly. Out on the doorstep was one of the new kids from the institute... that bat-like kid... Daniel...?  
  
This train of thought was stopped when the newcomer pushed the door open, and walked quickly into the living room. The argument, for the first time in five hours, stopped.  
  
Without appearing to move, Todd and Fred shifted to the side of the kid, while Lance stood behind him. The kid stared around him with a worried expression tempered with an angry glare. A few moments were given up to the two parties staring each other down.  
  
Pietro raised an eyebrow lazily. "What do you want?"  
  
"Ah need your help." The kid blurted, looking around pensively.  
  
"What, can't you get your X-Geek friends to help you?" Todd replied.  
  
"Ah didnae hive any time tae ask th' X-Men. Yous are the only people Ah can git right now. Please can you help?"  
  
Lance leaned against the doorframe, and smirked lazily. "Well, it depends on what you need our help on."  
  
Dean shifted his jaw and blinked sweat out of his eyes. "Do yous remember Piter?"  
  
Freddy's forehead wrinkled. "You mean the guy with long hair, those weird blue-on-blue eyes and the lips that made him look like he was wearing lipstick?"  
  
Dean nodded.  
  
"What about him?"  
  
Dean bit his lower lip. "He's gotten intae some argument wi' this wan fellow, an' Ah'm feart that he cuid be hurt. Cuid yous help me?"  
  
Pietro raised an eyebrow. "What, you're afraid that Piter could get into a fight with somebody? What's so bad about that?"  
  
"This guy is wan mean bastart. Ah wuid try an' help him myself, but Ah'm afraid Ah widnae make a difference."  
  
Todd shrugged. "So what help could we be? After all, you are one of the," his voice took a sneering tone, "perfect X-Men. If you can't beat him, what chance do we have?"  
  
"Look, Ah'm sure that if we help each other out, we can-"  
  
"I'm sorry," Pietro interrupted, "but we don't fight for any X-Geek. If they've put themselves into trouble, let them get themselves out of it." He gestured to the rest of the Brotherhood. "C'mon guys, let's go."  
  
"Look, Ah'll..." Dean thought furiously as the Brotherhood walked upstairs. "Ah'll pay you!"  
  
Pietro paused, then rushed back down the stairs and leaned casually against the wall. "You'll pay us, eh...?"  
  
Dean nodded. "Aye, but Ah need your help. When we get rid of the big man, Ah'll be able tae pay yous lot."  
  
Pietro looked interested. "How much?"  
  
Dean raised his eyes to heaven. He picked a random figure. "Five hundred?"  
  
Pietro smiled slyly. "Seven."  
  
"Six."  
  
"Six-fifty."  
  
"Four."  
  
"Five."  
  
"Done!" Dean yelled, shaking Pietro's hand. A slight confused look stole over the rest of the Brotherhood's faces.  
  
"Come on! If we run, we can get tae the place in ten minutes." Dean yelled, rushing towards the front door and opening it furiously.  
  
Lance raised an eyebrow. "Look, you do know that there is a brilliant invention out nowadays called an 'automobile'. It's a remarkable new device which allows you to go places v-"  
  
Dean looked at Lance with a sardonic glance. "Fine then, Let's go!"  
  
"Hold your horses..." Lance muttered as he walked over to the jeep, and opened it. The rest of the Brotherhood minus Wanda jumped in, followed by Dean.  
  
"So, where do we go?" Lance called over his shoulder.  
  
"Th' bloody – whit's it called – the playing field. You know where it is?" Lance nodded in reply, and pulled the jeep onto the road.  
  
"Listen..." Todd said thoughtfully, "Since you're here, can you settle an argument we're having?"  
  
"Oh, God, no..." Lance moaned, closing his eyes briefly.  
  
"Have you seen 'Pulp Fiction'?" Todd asked.  
  
"Aye."  
  
"So, what's in the briefcase?" Freddy asked.  
  
Dean looked thoughtful for a second. "Well, Ah've heard four theories about what's in it."  
  
"Go on..." Pietro gestured for him to continue.  
  
"Well, it cuid either be drugs..."  
  
Pietro nodded. "That's what I said."  
  
"... another theory is that it wis the gold Elvis suit frae 'True Romance'..."  
  
"I told you so!" Fred said, looking triumphant.  
  
"...another theory is that it's that bald guy's soul which he sold to the devil..."  
  
"Oh, come on." Pietro snapped, rolling his eyes. "How can it be that?"  
  
"It's like I said, yo," Todd added. "The plaster covers a wound which is associated for the removal of a soul. Also, the number lock, 666, indicates the devil as being the recipient. Why do y'think Wallace wanted the briefcase so badly?"  
  
Pietro just shook his head in a depressed manner.  
  
"...Th' final theory about what's in the briefcase, and this is th' theory which Ah believe, is that the briefcase held..." Dean paused, then lowered his voice. "... twa forty-watt bulbs linked tae a battery."  
  
The jeep drove in silence for a while. Then Pietro sneered at Dean. "That's stupid. My theory's right."  
  
"No it's not!" Todd snapped.  
  
"You're both wrong!" Fred yelled.  
  
"Yous are all wrong!" Dean crowed. "Ah'm right!"  
  
"In your dreams, Bruce Wayne!" Pietro yelled.  
  
"Thank you! And in real life, tae!"  
  
"X-Geek!"  
  
"Loser!"  
  
Lance sighed, then drummed his fingers against the wheel slowly. "It's times like these when I like to think I could drink..."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Sorry, I couldn't resist. Besides, I thought it was becoming a bit too 'holier-than-thou' for my tastes.  
  
R&R 


	9. In the Days of the Caveman

Finally! I've updated! What a surprise! I'm amazed at myself! Sorry, but I've been working on another project. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about this. So, without further adieu... What? Oh, yeah, I don't own the X- Men, in comic or cartoon form. Or any form. Of any way. Of any- you get the picture.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
One year earlier in the city of Savannah, Georgia...  
  
Sheriff Guthrie tipped his fedora back on his head and swept his lanky blonde hair out of his eyes. A few days to go before he got a few days of holiday... he could spend time with the wife... see the rest of the family back home... anything he wanted. So of course the law of averages had to give him one outrageously hard case before he left.  
  
The funeral home was surrounded by police cars, their sirens switched off, but their lights providing a bright, dancing light show on the walls. Guthrie sniffed angrily, and turned back towards the building. He was at the door, when a slight noise from outside caught his attention.  
  
An old, rusting Dodge Dart was making its noisy and pungent way up to the house. It parked haphazardly outside the building with a squealing sound of tortured gears that made him grimace.  
  
"Oh shit..." Guthrie's deputy muttered.  
  
"What?" Guthrie asked.  
  
"That's Detective Milligan's car. No mistaking it." The deputy pulled a long face. "She's a real piece of work. Everybody calls her 'Holmes'. You'll see why."  
  
The car door opened, and a woman, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and smoking an over-sized cigar, climbed out. She took the cigar out of her mouth, and looked around the street. She then snorted, and spat a large glob of phlegm onto the street. Guthrie walked towards her, trying to disguise his grimace of disgust.  
  
"Detective Milligan?" The woman turned to look at him at his question. "I'm Sheriff Guthrie, this case is my jurisdiction." He held out his hand. "Can I help you?"  
  
The woman looked him over slowly, then stuck her cigar back in her mouth, and grabbed his offered hand vigorously. She smiled, wrinkles forming on her face like a skin on a baked apple. "Indeed I am, and indeed you can." She said with a slow Texan drawl. A whisp of Guthrie's blonde hair caught her eye, and she stood back with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"You aren't one of the Guthries from West Virginia, now are you?"  
  
Guthrie smiled. "Yes, indeed I am. Born and raised in West Virginia."  
  
Milligan nodded, then blew a large plume of tobacco smoke from her nose. "That's a good family. Lots of kid's, right?" Guthrie nodded. "Yeah, that's the family I'm thinking of. What's your relation to Paige?"  
  
"You know my family?" Guthrie asked, surprise etched in his voice.  
  
"'Course I do. I got introduced to them all by one fella called Irving." She shook her head, then spat again. "He's a real piece of work. So, what's your relation to Paige?"  
  
"I'm her cousin."  
  
Milligan nodded. "She's a nice gal. Her older brother, whatshisname, Sammy, he's shaping up nice too. He's in that fancy-nancy place up North, ain't he?" Guthrie nodded. She slapped his shoulder. "Y'should be proud to have a family that large. Means yer never alone." She stuck the cigar back in her mouth. "Well, enough chit-chat. What's the deal?"  
  
Guthrie sighed, then opened the door to the funeral home. "It's a simple mowing down with gunfire, is all." He walked over to where the murder scene was. "As far as we can tell, an armed man – or woman – walked in here, broke the receptionist's neck-" he indicated the white-shrouded corpse with a nod, "-then came in here to administer the coup de grace."  
  
Milligan nodded sagely at the scene before her, then crushed her cigar down on the charity plate next to the doors. She walked in, her boots making heavy sounds on the wooden floor. She shook her head. "What a fuckin' mess..." she muttered, then rubbed her nose. She turned back to Guthrie.  
  
"I suppose it's foolish of me to enquire as to whether anyone saw the killer? I thought not." She paced the floor, looking at the strewn bodies lying on the blood-spattered floor.  
  
"Well," she started, "first things first. Whose funeral was it?"  
  
"A Mrs. Serling." Guthrie muttered, staring at his notes. "It looks like it was going to be a private funeral, just close friends and family."  
  
"Obviously it weren't private enough..." Milligan muttered. She walked back over to the main entrance. "Well, it seems to me as if this was a one-man operation." She declared, staring at the floor. "Y'can tell by the way that there's only enough casings here for one typical magazine..." she indicated the aforementioned objects, "...for one automatic rifle." She looked up at Guthrie. "Can't tell what type of rifle it was, though."  
  
"It was an MP5." Guthrie said.  
  
"How can y'tell?"  
  
Guthrie pointed to the gun on the floor. "Because it's right there. This may be Savannah, but I doubt even the people here are inclined to bring their guns to funerals."  
  
Milligan smirked. "Most droll." She walked forward down the aisle, walking around pools of blood. "It seems as if he stood at the door for a while, I dunno how long..." she trailed off, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "He knew how to use a gun, the casing piles indicate short, controlled bursts, not a whole magazine in one sitting, so he wasn't someone who had gone mad..."  
  
"That's very impressive, ma'am."  
  
Milligan waved her hand in a distracted fashion. "That's why they call me 'Holmes'." She peered at the bodies lying in the seats. "Do we have a guest list?"  
  
"Yep. Only a few people. A Mr. and Mrs. Feathers, a Ms. Dorge, a family called the McIllvanneys and this one feller called Rob Bryson." He shrugged. "We're already trackin' down any relations to tell them about what's happened, but we haven't found any links that connects them to being massacred."  
  
Milligan nodded in a distracted fashion. She scanned the room slowly, chewing her lower lip. "It seems to me as if he was trying to kill everyone here. I mean-" she hastily corrected herself, "-these people weren't 'innocent bystanders'. No..." She trailed off, tapping her foot. "This killer meant to kill everyone here. But why...?"  
  
Guthrie shrugged, then added; "You're right about the meaningful murders. We did notice that once the gunman switched to a semi-automatic, probably a nine-mil." He smiled. "Y'see, we leathernecks do notice something now and again."  
  
Milligan gave him a knowing look, then turned back to the murde scene. "After he fired off the clip..." she walked along the aisle, "...he walked along here, firing off some rounds at those who weren't dead..." Three corpses caught her eye. "I presume that's the family on the guest list, yeah?"  
  
"Probably."  
  
"Hel-lo..." Milligan whispered, leaning towards the corpses. "Did you boys notice this...?" She muttered, indicating the state of the young girl lying up on the floor.  
  
"What about her?"  
  
"Well, look at her. She's lying up, her head towards a crucifix. The other corpses haven't been moved..." She took her sunglasses off, and peered at her face. "I'll wager that the person closed her eyes after she was killed..."  
  
"What, you're saying that this person had some sort of connection with the gunman?"  
  
Milligan shrugged. "Could be, who knows. Get someone to check up. It could be our killer had a sudden spate of a guilty conscious, and decided to make her look more presentable in death."  
  
"Why would he have a guilty conscious?"  
  
Again, Milligan shrugged. "Beats me. Could be that she's pregnant," she said, indicating the distinct bulge, "or some other reason." Her eyes flicked to the girl's hands. "Strange..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"She weren't married. The kid was out of wedlock..."  
  
"How can y'tell?"  
  
"Well, look at the ring finger. It's bare."  
  
"She might not be able to wear it, or perhaps she just took it off for some reason or another." Guthrie suggested.  
  
"No, no..." Milligan shook her head slowly. "If she did, there would be a pale mark 'round her finger." Milligan stood up. "No, this kid was definitely out of wedlock." She turned to the man who was lying back on his chair, riddled with bullets. "This fella looks like the patriarch here..." She looked at his inside pocket. "Well, it weren't a robbery, this fella's wallet is still in there." She looked up at Guthrie. "Can I have a glove?"  
  
Guthrie nodded, pulling one out, and throwing it at Milligan. She caught it one-handed without looking, then slipped it on. She took the wallet out the pocket, then flipped it open.  
  
"Business card... phone card... a couple of twenties... a family photograph..." She took the latter out, and compared it to the corpses on the floor. "Yep, this definitely were a family. Except not all of 'em were here..."  
  
"How'd you mean?"  
  
"Well look." Milligan stated showing the photo to Guthrie. "There's the pater familias, there's the mamma, there's the girl – note she ain't pregnant – but, observe..." She nodded at Guthrie sagely. "...there is one person in this here picture who ain't here. This young fella here." She peered at the boy critically. "My, my, what an effeminate young man."  
  
Guthrie studied the picture. "Y'sure it ain't a daughter?"  
  
"It's a boy. Call it woman's intuition, but it's a boy." She shook her head. "What a silly lookin' fella he is. Long, blonde hair... bright, blue eyes... no sign of a beard or moustache..." She sighed. "I guess we'd better find out who this is, and break the bad news to 'em, huh?" She threw the wallet into the tray for further study.  
  
"I can see why they call you 'Holmes' now, ma'am." Guthrie said, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Milligan shrugged, but a glimmer of a smile touched her lips. "Ah, it's what the taxpayer pays for, I suppose." She yawned, then seemed to notice Guthrie for the first time. "When's your shift end?"  
  
Guthrie looked at his watch. "In about two hours."  
  
Milligan slapped him on the back. "Take an early break, why dontcha? I'll cover for you here. Go back home, talk to your family and suchlike." She smiled, her wrinkles appearing again as if by magic.  
  
Guthrie smiled. "Why, thank you ma'am."  
  
"It's not a problem, young man. You look as if y'could use some real rest for a change." She nodded to the door. "G'wan, scram. Leave us old fogeys to figure it out."  
  
Guthrie tipped his hat, then strode out the door, humming a show tune. Milligan's smile turned to a frown, and she turned back to the homicide scene. She cracked her knuckles and sighed. This was going to take some time...  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Shock! Horror! I actually wrote a chapter that was one scene only! What is the world coming to? Please R&R. 


	10. Things mean a lot

Hi, everybody. Once again I am forced to re-associate myself with reality and admit that I do not own anything vaguely X-Men related in any form, matter or type.  
  
Oh yeah, this is my first 'action scene', so it'll probably be 'buttock-clenchingly piss-poor', to quote Humphrey Littleton.  
  
Into the valley of death...  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Present day.  
  
Piter leapt back, his eyes dancing wildly as McIllvanney's blow hummed past his face. He readjusted his grip on his weapon, and crouched slightly, waiting for his opponent's next move.  
  
McIllvanney began to circle slowly, and Piter followed suit. He ran two fingers up the blade of the machete, aiming for the next attack. Piter's eyes went to McIllvanney's weapon, and he swallowed awkwardly.  
  
There was a blur of movement, and McIllvanney spun on one foot, swinging his arms around, trying to either slice or brain Piter. Piter ducked and rolled under McIllvanney's out flung arms.  
  
"Stupid, stupid, stupid..." he whispered under his breath as he turned back to face his enemy, this time concentrating on McIllvanney's feet and not his machete.  
  
"How wonderfully you dance..." McIllvanney said lazily, then grinned, his carnivorous teeth glinting slightly in the dark. He took a step forward, and stabbed forward with the blade. Piter jumped over the blow, then landed on the spine of the machete.  
  
McIllvanney gazed at Piter in surprise. Piter replied by spinning on one foot, and kicking McIllvanney on the side of the head. He spun away, clutching his face and cursing angrily. Piter cursed too. That had hurt his foot. He held his quarterstaff in the 'ready' position, and waited for McIllvanney to stop staggering around.  
  
McIllvanney shook his head, then turned to Piter once more. His grin was replaced with an angry sneer, and his nostrils flared dangerously. "That was an interesting development there, friend. However, will your fancy moves save you from your over-due death?"  
  
Piter shrugged. McIllvanney flung out suddenly, aiming to split Piter down the middle. Piter's quarterstaff took the blow from the machete, but he couldn't stop McIllvanney's follow-up in the form of a kick.  
  
The blow slammed into his midriff, sending him flying backwards. He bounced off of the field, somersaulted unintentionally and collapsed into some bleachers. To say Piter was in pain was only a slight understatement. His entire body was in agony, the dull throbbing type which left him completely incapacitated. He tried to lever himself up, but the ground decided to be less friendly towards him, and seemed to slip away from his hand. His head hit the ground again, and he felt blood start to seep out of his ears, nose, mouth and - he was a bit uncertain here, but then again, he was in too much pain to actually confirm his suspicions - his eyes.  
  
Despite being in his own pain-fuelled private world, he still heard McIllvanney walk towards him. A boot roughly shoved him so he was lying face-up. There was a snort of smugness, and he saw briefly, a machete being raised above him.  
  
There was a brief flurry of movement, and a lanky youth seemed to suddenly appear beside McIllvanney.  
  
The boy made an exaggerated 'tutting' sound. "Shame on you, fine sir," he stated angrily, his speech quick, "you have no right bringing such weapons of violence into the city of Bayville." The silver-haired youth snatched the machete from McIllvanney's hand easily. "That's our job." He continued, kneeing McIllvanney in the groin.  
  
As McIllvanney fell with a quivering cry, the boy shot off, grabbing Piter off of the ground as he did so. He stopped in front of the remainder of the Brotherhood and Dean, dropping Piter unceremoniously against a wall. Dean quickly checked Piter over, then turned to McIllvanney's groaning form.  
  
"Y' can't win, McIllvanney. Leave us alone."  
  
McIllvanney stood up unsteadily, and stared at the motley crew arranged in front of him. He grinned, then started to chuckle. "Scot-boy. My poor, naïve and stupid Scot-boy. Do you think you are going to stop me?" McIllvanney looked at the rest of the Brotherhood and snorted. "What are these boys supposed to do? Wear bad clothes at me to death?"  
  
Pietro made an exaggerated affronted sound. "You're one to talk about poor tastes in clothes, you rube. What did you do, mug a boat person?" He preened his hair, and smirked at McIllvanney.  
  
"You've got a big mouth on you kid, but tell me, can you walk the walk?"  
  
"Ooh, that sounds like a challenge..." Pietro said, grinning in a condescending manner. Todd groaned and muttered something about poor come- backs.  
  
Pietro sped forward, weaving as he did so. "It's twister time!" his gleeful voice said, and a blur began to rotate around McIllvanney, getting faster and faster. McIllvanney tried to keep up with the movement, sighed wearily, then stuck his arm out. There was the sound you get when you hit a steak with an iron bar, and Pietro stopped, mainly because his face was being held in McIllvanney's hand.  
  
"You could have either fought or messed around kid." McIllvanney stated, lifting Pietro off of the ground. "Now, I'd advise you to do neither." He threw Pietro back at where the rest of the Brotherhood were, then grinned and cracked his neck.  
  
Freddy stomped forward, and grinned. "You want to try that move on me, buddy?" He smashed his fist into his hand, and his grin grew.  
  
McIllvanney gazed at Freddy levelly, then he smirked. "Oh, this is going to be an easy fight." He suppressed a laugh. "All I need to do is wait for you to have a fatal attack of gout, and by the looks of things, that's not going to take long."  
  
Freddy's face went from hungry anticipation to a look of anger. "That's not funny!" He yelled.  
  
"Of course it is, thunder-thighs!" McIllvanney reprimanded. "I've got more from where that one came from too! Like; don't you think you should move to a different country? I know that the continental plate we're on can take the weight of New York, but aren't you putting a bit of strain on it?"  
  
"SHUT UP!" Freddy bellowed.  
  
"Or you'll do what? Have a heart attack at me?" McIllvanney taunted. Then he laughed.  
  
Freddy screamed incoherently, and charged forward. McIllvanney raised an eye at the rapidly advancing mutant, then hurdled over him, kicking out as he did so, sending the Blob into a stand. He dusted his hands off and snickered. "I love beating up stupid people..." he muttered between his laughs. "It's so funny..." He turned back to face the remainder of the team, and got a face-full of slime.  
  
"That's what you get for being nasty, yo!" Todd laughed as McIllvanney stumbled around, grappling at the glutinous slime. Lance concentrated, sending a seismic burst at McIllvanney's feet, throwing him to the ground. Another shockwave flung him against the field, beating him senseless.  
  
McIllvanney stood up, tearing the slime off of his face with a considerable portion of his skin, whereupon Todd kicked him solidly in the chest, flinging him back to the ground. He landed face-down, and stopped moving.  
  
"Ah think we got him..." Dean stated, moving up towards the prone body. Todd hopped over to McIllvanney's head, opposite of Dean, and shrugged.  
  
McIllvanney's feet grappled around Dean's head, while he gripped one side of Todd's face at the same time. He spun around, sending the two boys cartwheeling to the ground and causing him to land on his feet again. Todd started to get up, but was then grabbed by McIllvanney.  
  
McIllvanney smirked slowly at Todd writhing, then flung him away towards Freddy. "So, Piter... Anymore helpless lackeys for me to defeat?"  
  
Lance held out his arms and smirked. "How about you try to defeat a shakedown, pal?" He concentrated, and sent another wave towards McIllvanney. The first roll brought him to his knees. The consecutive waves flung him onto the concrete of the carpark.  
  
Piter raised an eyebrow. "Nice going, Lance..." he looked at McIllvanney. "Admittedly, you could come up with a better line the next time you're in a fight."  
  
"I'll say!" McIllvanney yelled, getting up from the ground. He winced at the sensation of his grazes and cuts closing. "You need to come up with something witty and urbane, not something eye-wateringly poor. Something like; 'Here, suck on a car.'" He threw the aforesaid object at Lance to emphasize his point.  
  
Lance and Piter dodged the missile as it crashed down to earth. Pieces of metal cartwheeled off of it, one striking Lance in the back of his head, knocking him prone.  
  
Piter looked back at McIllvanney, who picked up his machete. Piter readied his quarterstaff, and braced himself. McIllvanney began to casually walk towards him. "I know you, Piter. That was Dean's plan. You would have nothing to do with something quite so 'dishonourable'," McIllvanney sneered at the concept, "besides, if you had done it, you would have done it so I would have been defeated." He smiled condescendingly. "You don't have to apologise for that."  
  
Piter frowned. "You didn't accept any of my other apologises, why are you concerned about me making another one?"  
  
"Because I know no blame resided with you. In all of the other circumstances, however, blame lies solely with you." He raised the machete. "Are you ready to die?"  
  
"No."  
  
McIllvanney grinned. "That's the spirit!" and lunged.  
  
Piter parried the first blow, dodged the second, made a slight riposte, hitting the end of his quarterstaff against McIllvanney's nose. The Road Virus fell back, blood squirting from his nose. He charged blindly, swinging the blade aimlessly. Piter ducked under his arms and spun away.  
  
At least, that was the plan.  
  
He didn't quite so much feel the machete cut through his shoulder, he more so heard the slicing sound. There was a moment's pause, then the pain kicked in, dropping him to his knees. Nausea kicked in when he could feel the grass tickling his exposed bone and muscle. He tried to roll, but his body had gone on strike. The world took on a slightly distant feel.  
  
"Fool..." the voice was distant, but cruel. "You may have thought yourself to be a warrior, but you are anything but." There was a pause, then a sigh. "You may not be able to fight like a warrior, but at least you can die like one." There was the slight metallic clink of a sword being raised.  
  
Piter braced his muscles, then pushed upward, using his stave as a lever. His legs threatened to collapse, but he pulled himself up regardless. Blood left his eyes, and the night swam back into focus. McIllvanney was standing in front of him, his face sombre. Piter grimaced, then held out his quarterstaff in the ready position. McIllvanney nodded, then moved forward.  
  
There was a brief clash of steel, then a tearing sound.  
  
Both combatants stood still. McIllvanney looked at Piter with a curious expression. His gaze drew itself down at his feet, where a small rivulet of blood was staining the earth. He lifted his shirt, exposing the quickly-closing wound to the night air. Piter flicked the knife from out of its hiding place, and pointed it at McIllvanney.  
  
"There was one thing you taught me, McIllvanney." Piter whispered. "Never fight fair."  
  
"I'm glad to see you remembered one thing." McIllvanney whispered. He raised his machete, then paused. "For insulting you earlier..." he started, "I apologise."  
  
"I accept that apology." Piter whispered. "Shall we continue this fight?"  
  
"Now?" McIllvanney asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Now."  
  
They both lunged forward and attacked. They both retreated.  
  
Piter gazed at McIllvanney levelly. McIllvanney returned the look, then put a hand up to his throat. Blood seeped through his fingers, trickling down his wrist and staining his shirt. His fingers loosened their grip on the weapon. It dropped with a dull thud. Slowly, slowly, his eyes glazed. He fell to his knees, then dropped to the ground.  
  
Piter stood up, and sheathed the bloody knife. He turned back to where the Brotherhood and Dean were lying about. He stumbled towards one of the undamaged bleachers, and sat down heavily, grimacing at the feel of his shoulder wound widening.  
  
He dropped the stave to the ground, and put his head in his hands. He felt the sun on his face, heralding a new dawn. He looked up at the blood-red skies. He sighed, then turned his face back to the field, watching shadows form and hearing the birds start their morning chorus.  
  
"Parting with friends is a sadness..." he quoted. "A place is just a place..." He smiled wanly, nodding at the irony of it all. Sunlight glared into his eyes, and he winced at the feeling. He got up, and started the long walk back towards the institute.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Oh, hell. That was poor. That was poor. What the hell is wrong with me? God, that was so poor I can scarce believe it. Please R&R to tell me how poor it is. 


	11. Stranger Than Kindness

What, you thought it was over? You thought that this reckless piece of trash was finished? Well, not yet... Only a few more chapters to go, if not one.  
  
I own deu nada, if that is how you spell it.  
  
This'll be the only chapter for a while.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Catherine Carradine rubbed her eyes in protest to the bright sunlight. She often found the sun too bright, but then again, she was one of life's constant complainers.  
  
She got out of the old Cadillac uneasily, and winced slightly at the sudden rise in temperature. She really did not like hot summers. Gravel crunched beneath her as she walked up to the building site, carrying a small dossier with her.  
  
The door to the 'gaffer's' office, as she always called them, was open to the outside air, giving a lazy orange glow to the interior. She knocked once, then walked in.  
  
An ordinary-looking man was reading a local rag. He looked up at the sound of Catherine clearing her throat, and peered at her through his glasses theatrically. "Can I help you?"  
  
She smiled briefly, sitting down on an offered chair. "Yes. I am here to see one of your workers on this site. It concerns a matter of grave, personal importance." She smiled again.  
  
The man pursed his lips extravagantly. "Dear me. Whatever is the matter?"  
  
"As I said. It's personal."  
  
The man cleared his throat unsteadily. "Which person did you want to see, precisely?"  
  
"A Mr. P McIllvanney." Catherine stated, reading it off from her notes. She looked back up at the man.  
  
"McIllvanney... McIllvanney... oh yes, you mean the man from Georgia, yes?" Catherine nodded. "He's a good worker." The man continued. "I do hope there is nothing seriously wrong."  
  
Get on with it, you old fool! She thought to herself, but said. "Do you know where I could find Mr. McIllvanney?"  
  
"Today, I'd expect him to work at the South end of the construction site." The man turned to get a drink from a small refrigerator. "If you want to, I could call him ov-" he turned back to an empty room. He raised his eyebrows, then made a slightly disgruntled noise. "No sense of common decency at all..."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
McIllvanney paused his work, hearing his name being called from the far end of the site. He brushed a few errant hairs from his eyes, then turned to face the caller.  
  
"I say again, is there a Mr. McIllvanney here?" The woman was of a normal build with pale skin. Her head was bare, but she did not seem to disguise that fact.  
  
"Yeah. I'm McIllvanney." He said, walking towards her.  
  
"Hey, McIllvanney, who's your boyfriend?" A mocking voice from a crowd crowed, and brief laughter followed the remark. McIllvanney ignored it, but the woman's jaw jutted out angrily.  
  
"What do you need me for?" He asked, holding out his hand.  
  
The woman ignored the gesture. "I'm afraid I have some personal information to tell you." She looked at the rest of the construction workers. "Is there anywhere on this site where we could have some privacy?"  
  
McIllvanney rolled his eyes at the chorus of catcalls and jeers that arose from the previous comment. "Yeah, sure. Follow me."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
McIllvanney had lead the lady up to the top floor of the building. As it was so late in the day, it was pretty much abandoned. McIllvanney kicked out at some pigeons sending them fluttering away. The woman stood in front of him and opened the dossier she was holding.  
  
"Mr. P McIllvanney, yes?" McIllvanney nodded. "Born in Savannah, Georgia to parents Richard McIllvanney and Teresa McIllvanney nee Archer?" Again, he nodded.  
  
She flipped a page. "One sibling, a Ms. Mary McIllvanney, approximately thirteen years old... You have blonde hair, blue eyes, have a height of six feet six inches, a weight of two hundred and fifty-four pounds, you were educated at home, briefly joined the army, given a dishonourable discharge..." she trailed off and smiled at McIllvanney's confused expression. "As you can see, we have built up a considerable file on you, McIllvanney."  
  
"Who's we?"  
  
The woman waved her hand vaguely. "That's not important right now. What is important is what I have to offer you."  
  
McIllvanney raised a hand. "First, can you tell me your name?"  
  
The woman smiled. "You can call me Bosshog, if you want." She shuffled some more files in the dossier. "Now, onto the topic at hand... I know that this is not your favoured type of employment. You are more a man of action, hence your brief military career. I can offer you such employment."  
  
McIllvanney raised an eyebrow. "Ordinarily, I'd ask why me? There are plenty of other better ex-soldiers and mercenaries out there who'd want some action and who are better behaved then I am. I was kicked out because my methods were considered too extreme."  
  
"Yes, killing the officer who insulted your background may be considered slightly extremist in some circles..." The woman smiled sardonically. "It is because of your methods that you have been tracked down."  
  
"Is it a government-based job?"  
  
The woman's eyes went from one side to another. "You could interpret it that way..."  
  
McIllvanney shrugged. "Well, if you wanted psychotic soldiers, employ some mass-murderer. I've paid my debt to America, now I expect it to pay me back. I'm not working for any G-man." He walked towards the staircase.  
  
Bosshog's eyes hardened. "Fine. You were headhunted because we know you are different from other people."  
  
McIllcvanney paused. "I beg your pardon, what did you say?" he asked quietly.  
  
Bosshog returned to the dossier. "Back in when you were in eighth grade, you got into a fight with a small gang of thugs. Even though you were outnumbered six-to-one, with them armed with weapons ranging from pipes to knives, you managed to hospitalise all of them. All of them suffered some sort of breakage to the bones, three of them received, and I quote, 'serious brain damage'. One has remained in a coma ever since the accident..." She trailed off, then raised an eyebrow at McIllvanney. "Have I missed anything?"  
  
His eyes thinned. "No. What's your point?"  
  
"I know for a fact that there is something different about you. I know that you know it, but you don't wish it to be known. I also know..." she took a step towards him, "...that such skills are in demand. The people I represent are very interested in a man of your talents, McIllvanney."  
  
"I'm sorry, but I'll have to refuse." McIllvanney snapped curtly, then turned back to the staircase. Bosshog grabbed his shoulder, trying to stop him. McIllvanney spun, lunging out with a fist. She dodged it, then grabbed McIllvanney under his chin, lifted him off of the ground, then slammed him into the floor so hard that he left an indentation.  
  
Her knee stabbed painfully into his back, his right arm was twisted behind his back painfully and he was pushed into the floor mercilessly. "Don't think that just because I don't have your brawn or muscles I am the weaker of us." She hissed into his ear. "As you can see, I also have such abilities, but I am not afraid to use them. I do not hide them in fear of what I am." She twisted his arm some more and leaned in closer. "This is the freedom I offer you. Don't throw it away."  
  
McIllvanney tried to push away from the ground, but Bosshog returned the favour. God, what a fighter! He thought. He shifted his head his face was not scraping against the floor. "How do I know I can trust you?" he grunted.  
  
"You have my word as someone who understands your situation." She smiled. "Do we have a deal?"  
  
McIllvanney nodded breathlessly. Bosshog released him from her grip, then pulled him up single-handedly. He swung out with his fist again. Bosshog ducked the blow, then kicked him into a pillar.  
  
"That's the type of thinking I'm looking for, McIllvanney." She said, pulling him out of the building. "However, if you try that trick on me again, I will kill you." She stared at him levelly. "Are we clear on this?"  
  
McIllvanney nodded breathlessly, then winced at the sensation of his wounds closing. Despite the fact that it made him practically invulnerable, it did not stop it from being extraordinarily painful.  
  
Bosshog stared at the shrinking lesions on McIllvanney's skin. Yes, that's the type of person I can use, she thought. A muscle-minded tank-brain. A thug and a murderer who doesn't ask; why am I here, rather; what do I do now? She smiled at the thought, and passed him a handkerchief to wipe the blood off of his face.  
  
"So what is this?"  
  
The bald woman turned and smiled at him wanly. "'This' is a small group of elite personnel used to target and eliminate certain..." she paused, "...elements within this country. We are a highly secretive and strategic group used in conjunction with military operations, among other things."  
  
McIllvanney tipped his head to one side. "You mean an anti- terrorist squad?"  
  
The woman pursed her lips. "More or less, more or less." She mimicked his head movement. "Do we have a deal?"  
  
McIllvanney sniffed, then shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"  
  
Bosshog smiled. "Most excellent. If you'd care to follow me..." she indicated the stairway.  
  
"What about my two week notice?"  
  
"It's already being dealt with..."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
Whistler stopped the van, and made a low theatrical moan. "Looks like we were too late, Bosshog." He turned and shook the woman awake. "This has the Road Virus's hand all over it."  
  
Bosshog opened her eyes to the wreckage of the Bayville playing field. "Destroyed property... damaged buildings... yeah, that looks like his work." She got out, and walked towards the scene. "Whistler, Rosemary, get out and search for our three lost lambs, will you?"  
  
She walked to the car park end of the field, hearing the other two mutants get out of the van and start searching. Thankfully the police did not appear to be here. She didn't want to start this day with reckless slaughter. For one thing she was running low on cleaning tablets.  
  
A brief gust of wind blew across the field, sending some light weight garbage flying around the grass. She chewed on her lower lip and thought.  
  
Rosemary's shout startled her from her reverie. Bosshog jogged over to where the red-haired girl was. At her feet was McIllvanney, lying face- down on the ground.  
  
Whistler ran up. "Is he dead?"  
  
"Don't be dense, Whistler." Rosemary snapped. "He's not dead. You know as well as I do he can't die."  
  
Bosshog pulled a face. "Well, he can die, but only if he is in separate pieces." She picked him up and flung him over her shoulder. "Come on. Let's head back to the van. People are going to swarming here soon, I want us to be nowhere near here when that happens."  
  
Whistler put on an injured expression, but followed her. Rosemary looked around at the area before joining the other two.  
  
"So, what do we do now, Boss?" Rosemary asked as they entered the van and drove off. "We're back to square one, in case you haven't notice-"  
  
"I am well aware of that fact, Mary..." Bosshog muttered, controlling her temper. If only Piter were here, she thought in annoyance. He would be able to see the hidden strategies here...  
  
"Why was McIllvanney here?" She asked aloud. "To what possible advantage could he have to stage a fight?"  
  
These are the types of questions I must ask. The answers to these will help me find the other lost lambs...  
  
"I know that McIllvanney was a single-minded fool. He wouldn't get distracted by anything. So, why was he here?"  
  
"We could ask him when he awakes from the healing suspension." Whistler suggested.  
  
Bosshog shook her head. "He wouldn't say. That's another thing I know about him. He'll keep his mouth shut. No..." she muttered. "To get the answers here, I need to do some deduction on my part."  
  
He came to kill those two boys. Piter would feel 'duty-bound' to fight him one-on-one despite what I taught him about cheating... Dean would try to trick him, but how? Dean did not have the subtlety of Piter, and Piter would hear nothing of arranging a trick. Therefore, that wreck was a result of Dean's meddling.  
  
She ran her fingers over her skull. I know that Dean would stick close to Piter, so if Dean is here, so is Piter... But where?  
  
There was a brief squeaking sound from Sneaky. "He says he's bored." Whistler translated. "He wants the radio to be put on. That OK?"  
  
Bosshog nodded absently. Where? It would be a place where there would be adequate protection, but secluded. Where in this place is there such a housing?  
  
"Aw, turn the channel already." Rosemary snapped. "It's that damn Kelly guy." She leaned to change the station, only to be blocked by Bosshog's hand. "Hold on."  
  
"-I say again as a citizen concerned about the safety of other law- abiding citizens, that these mutants are quite frankly, a danger." The man continued. "All the times that we have encountered these menaces, they have caused untold damage, either to public or government property." Probably a Republican, Bosshog thought. "A prime example can be found in the suburb of Bayville at the Xavier Institue, where already four new mutants have arrived to add to the ch-" Bosshog switched the radio off.  
  
She smiled slowly. Serendipity, she thought. I love it so much. She turned to the passengers. "How would you feel about having a home here for a while?"  
  
Rosemary crinkled her nose. "You mean in this white-bred, normal-as- hell, plain old suburb? No way!"  
  
Bosshog smiled. "That's a shame, because that's what we are going to do."  
  
The van drove off, heading towards the distant shape of the Xavier institute.  
  
&&&&&&  
  
The END! Isn't that handy!  
  
R&R, e'eybody. 


End file.
